Before I Hit the Ground
by misqueue
Summary: Sci Fi AU. The cargo run to Andromeda is good money, but it takes a toll on the runner. Blaine wants Kurt to stay. For klaineadvent 2014. Warnings for sexual situations, mild kink, physical illness and malaise, some mental health troubles, prostitution of a sort (more like Firefly companions), self-destructive behavior, angst
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** Title from the lyrics to Duran Duran's "Falling Down", and a hat tip to various sci fi stories that have inspired elements of this, namely Firefly, Anne McCaffrey's novel _Crystal Singer_, and a dash of my favourite space station shows, Babylon 5 and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. For klaineadvent 2014.

You can find the music used in the story on my tumblr: tagged/BIHTG-soundtrack-music

* * *

**Ache.**

Kurt's left knee twinges sharp as it takes his weight down to the floor of the hangar bay. The cryo-sickness is always worse coming back in off the Andromeda run because of the short turnaround. It's three months there and back, but he feels aged three hundred years. It'll take days to feel right again. He winces and his right foot hits the deck. Pain in his ankle. An unshakable chill. Blurry vision. He needs a strong drink, a hot bath, and some intensive coddling. He has some time before the worst of it sets in.

He looks up at his ship, and then passes a diagnostic stick to the deck chief. "Betty's drive crystals are out of tune again," Kurt says. "Call Miss Berry this time."

"But, sir—"

"She owes me a favor."

Kurt straightens his shoulders and walks away with as much vigor as he can muster. His spine aches like someone's taken a pile driver to it. He takes the lift from the docking level to the gallery.

The Blue Bar on the Oasis station is his first destination. They have a piano, and cocktails with slices of real citrus on the rim. Sometimes he finds Blaine there, playing. It's where they first met.

But not tonight. Kurt sits at the battered wooden bar beneath the neon tubes and listens to the girl who's at the piano. She's painfully thin and pretty in a way that looks far too breakable, but she sings the standards with shining eyes and the soul of experience in her rich, clear voice. Her tip jar is full. Kurt sips his whiskey sour and tries the shake off the déjà vu. Everything feels too much like a memory when he's just woken up, but it's nice to be in the company of humans again.

He leaves the bar with the taste of lemon bright and bitter on his tongue and the whiskey smoke filling his nose. Kurt doesn't stop by his rented quarters on his way up to the top deck of the station. Blaine will run him a bath and wash his hair. Blaine will take care of him.

He comes to the familiar door, lays his hand upon it for a moment before pressing the bell.

It opens, and Kurt's breath catches in his throat.

"You look like hell," Blaine says with a smile, as he always does.

And Kurt leans against the open door jamb, looks into the beautiful face that he wishes were the home his heart yearns for, and he replies, "I'm definitely looking for some sin tonight."

**Balance.**

"You talk a good game," Blaine says from behind and above Kurt, who lies face down, half-asleep, freshly washed, and naked on the softest mattress in the entire universe. "And yet..." Blaine says with a put-upon sigh. And then one of the hands that's been so expertly squeezing the tension from Kurt's muscles swats Kurt across the backside. Hard. "Don't fall asleep on me, Kurt."

"Ow!" Kurt flinches, opens his eyes enough to glare over his shoulder. "I'm warm for the first time in months. Don't judge me." Staying awake through the first six hours after coming out of cryo is the hardest. There's a danger of coma. Only, after that passes then sleep becomes nigh impossible for days.

"You know I'm not," Blaine says.

"No," Kurt says as more warmth blooms where Blaine's hand landed. "You're not," he says with a sigh. The warmth trickles into tantalizing and welcome pleasure. Kurt shifts his hips against Blaine's bedding, tips his ass up for more. Blaine knows from experience what Kurt needs most this first night back among the living. The shock of pain and pleasure to push and pull and put him back into some kind of alignment and keep him awake. He's as out of tune as Betty.

Blaine strikes his buttocks again—swift and stinging—and Kurt bites his lip and moans.

"Too much?" Blaine asks him softly. He always asks.

"Not at all," Kurt says. "Keep going."

**Cloud.**

Blaine's got one of the best views on the station. Kurt sits on the edge of the bed looking out at the streaks of gold and crimson dust, bright in the light of their parent, a fading dwarf star. His ass is sore, inside and out, but he grins as he shifts his weight and stretches his arms over his head. His ass is all that's sore, and Kurt will enjoy it while it lasts. Blaine's a genius. Who is currently in the shower.

Kurt flops back into the pillows and traces shapes in the nebula with his gaze until he finds his favorites: the rocking horse that breathes fire, the swallow, the umbrella that's looking more like a mushroom these days. Time has passed.

It's silent up here, but for the wet patter of the shower. Kurt can close his eyes and pretend it's the rain on the roof of his childhood home. His stomach signals a tentative and nauseous kind of hunger and Kurt rolls to his belly. He reaches for the console on Blaine's night table.

He taps the display to life and shuffles through the delivery food options. Blaine usually eats something with him, so Kurt orders for him too.

**Dessert.**

"You made a cake?" Kurt asks from where he's sprawled shamelessly on Blaine's bed, one hand splayed across his overfull belly.

"Yes," Blaine replies, and he brings the plate and two forks over to the bed. His hair is still damp from the shower and curling around his ears. He's gloriously nude beneath a brief, open robe of midnight blue, but Kurt's appetite is piqued more by the scent of chocolate than it is by Blaine's body.

"With spoons and bowls and flour and eggs and butter and—whatever else goes into a cake?"

"I did," Blaine says.

"I didn't know you could bake," Kurt says.

"Three months ago, neither did I. But you told me once you missed homemade cake, so..." Blaine shrugs and sets the cake on the bed between them. "You need the calories."

With a grunt, Kurt rolls to his side and takes the fork Blaine offers him. "You don't need to work so hard to impress me, you know."

Blaine just smiles and tells Kurt to try the cake.

**Evening.**

He's supposed to be sleeping, but he's not. It's expected, but... Kurt knows how this part goes, and he never gets used to it. He blinks at the ceiling and feels the inevitable creep. It's like metal sliding along his nerves, and as if something's caught in his throat that he can't quite swallow. The anxiety will start soon, irrational and blinding.

He turns to the man sleeping beside him. Hesitates a moment before putting his hand on Blaine's shoulder and giving a gentle nudge. "Blaine?" he asks, tremulous and thin. A spike of animal terror shudders up his spine.

"I'm here," Blaine answers immediately, as if he hadn't been asleep at all. He takes Kurt's hand in a strong grip. "I won't leave you alone."

**Fall.**

The morning is the worst. He never remembers it as being the worst, but in the moment of it, it's always the worst. He's weak, trembling, and ashamed—and more tired than seems possible for his body to bear without actually dying. He cries softly against the pillow while Blaine gets him a glass of fortified juice.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Kurt says.

"There's a basin right here," Blaine says. He sets the glass on the night table with a thunk that reverberates bizarrely, makes Kurt's bones ache. He strokes Kurt's hair from his sweaty forehead. "It's okay if you do."

"I should go," Kurt says. He sniffs and tries to push himself up with reed-feeble arms.

"Stay," Blaine says. "As long as you want."

But Kurt knows all that means is _'as long as you've paid for.' _He chokes on a sob, and falls back to the mattress.

**Grace.**

"I mean it," Blaine says.

Kurt bites back the reflexive _Why?_ Instead he says, "Even after seven straight runs to Andromeda, I don't have enough credit to buy your contract."

"I've never asked you to," Blaine says. "And I'm not asking you for that now."

"But—?" Kurt tries to sit again, but only manages to rouse the queasy feeling in his belly to full blown nausea. He scrambles for the metal basin as Blaine pushes it toward him.

Once his stomach is empty and he's rinsed out his mouth, Kurt lies on his back, panting. Blaine runs a warm washcloth over his chest, soothing away the cold sweat.

"We barely know each other," Kurt says.

"I don't think that's true," Blaine says. "And I don't believe you do either."

"I don't understand what you're asking me for," Kurt says.

Blaine smiles. "I'm not asking you for anything."

Kurt doesn't understand. His hands shake as he covers his face.

**Harmony.**

The mattress bows beside Kurt as Blaine sits and sets the cloth aside. "It's worse every time you come to me, Kurt. You're not taking enough time to rebuild your strength between runs."

"I'm perfectly fine," Kurt says, and the lie cringes in his heart as he says it.

"You're not." Blaine's hand wraps around the biceps of his closest arm, which Kurt well knows is becoming flaccid with atrophy.

"So, what? _Now_ you're judging me?" Kurt says bitterly. "When I'm... down like this? Am I no longer pretty enough for you?" Tears burn his vision, which he turns to the ceiling above him. He doesn't need to see the pity in Blaine's eyes. His heart thuds too hard behind his breastbone, but it doesn't feel vital.

Blaine actually laughs at him, a gentle huff of breath. "Is that honestly what you think I'm doing?"

"No," Kurt relents. He doesn't have the energy for indignation, especially not directed at Blaine. Especially not when Blaine's right.

"I need to do it three more times," Kurt says. He's budgeted so carefully. He could never manage it in less than ten unless he gave up on eating entirely, and ten has given him enough of a cushion he can afford Blaine. He only needs to endure three more runs. Only. The way the ache of it sits so long and heavy in his bones and hangs in his brain makes him doubt he can—but he won't give in. "That'll be enough."

It will be enough unless Rachel asks him to pay her, which she shouldn't. But as much as Kurt hates to call in a favor from her, he knows even if he can make three more runs, Betty can't, not with the way her drive was screaming coming in yesterday.

And Kurt would swear that an out of tune drive makes the cryosleep harder too, like the bad harmonics fuck with his brainwaves or the tissue in his body or something. The Guild tuner hasn't been able to keep Betty singing sweetly, and Kurt's in such poor voice these days, he can't do it himself. The pang of that regret is especially unsavory. But, he reminds himself, he could never make enough tuning drives anyway, not with how _specific_ his voice is. And certainly not after blowing it out on that frigate, saving Rachel's ass.

It feels like more than a lifetime ago, but Rachel's still the best he knows.

"Enough for what?" Blaine asks eventually. "You've never told me."

Kurt turns his head to look at Blaine now. It's not pity he sees, but what he sees scares him even more. It's too much to lose, and he knows he can't keep it. "Um," Kurt says, and he has to swallow to keep his throat open. "My Dad needs a new heart?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Imprint.**

It's quiet in the hangar bay at this hour, but over the comm line, Rachel's voice is loud in his ear, as if she's trying to make herself heard over a crowd. "I'm so sorry, Kurt, I can't be there any sooner. You know I'm happy to help you out—_of course_ I am, and why didn't you get in touch sooner? But previous commitments—"

Kurt closes his eyes. "It's fine, Rachel."

"If you could delay your departure a few days, I can definitely do it."

But a delay means a penalty fine. "I have commitments too," Kurt says. "It's not possible."

She sighs. "I'll make sure I'm there when you get back, okay? Send me your itinerary."

"Yeah, I will."

"And Kurt?"

"Hmm?"

"It's good to hear from you. It's been a while."

"It has," Kurt says, soft with wistful affection.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will," Kurt says. "Thanks, Rachel." Kurt ends the call and slips the earpiece off, returns it to his breast pocket by feel. Then he opens his eyes, crouches down, and looks back into the open engine compartment where Betty's cantankerous drive array is exposed.

He runs his fingers along each glassy crystal spear, from the squat cut of the bass modulator to the needle thin attenuators. They're all a cool and flawless cloudy gray. He seeks evidence of fracture or fissure, some indication of why they're not holding their imprinted tones. But early stress is rarely visible.

His legs burn and threaten to cramp, so he shifts his weight to sit cross-legged on Betty's deck plates.

Tentatively, he places his fingertips on the first fat crystal in the sequence. He hums a low D flat. The crystal resonates as it should. Its vibration tickles beneath his touch. If he can isolate a single crystal causing the trouble, that can be fixed with a single replacement. He can afford that—if he gives up his night with Blaine after his return. Which doesn't bear much advance contemplation. He'll have to swallow his pride and use the Guild clinic.

So, with hope screwed into determination, Kurt works his way in discrete steps across two and a half octaves with a gentle touch and a gentle humming call and response for each crystal. It's a simple diagnostic that he could once do with scarce thought or effort. So far, so good. Which is not actually the result he wants.

And as he's forced to transition into the upper part of his range, he feels the tightness in his larynx grow into discomfort. He stops immediately before his voice falters. He's healed, but he's also learned the hard way: don't push it.

With a sigh, he leans back, braced on his arms, and stares at the silent crystals. He ignores the dull trembling pain in his triceps and forearms, and the nagging curl of hunger in his belly. The fatigue behind his eyes won't budge without sleep, and he still can't manage it. It's the graveyard shift, he feels kin enough to the walking dead to be up. He has but five days to turn both Betty and himself around.

"Still can't sleep?" comes from outside Betty's hull. It's not a voice he expects. He left Blaine yesterday before noon when his time ran out, and to the best of Kurt's knowledge, Blaine never comes down to the hangar bay.

Kurt scrambles to his feet. Or, he intends to scramble, but he ends up dragging himself up stiffly, finding handholds on the bulkhead, wincing and swearing under his breath as he straightens his posture, steps to the open hatch, and looks down to the hangar deck. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

.

**Jukebox.**

"Insomnia," Blaine replies, cheerfully enough that Kurt laughs. "Believe it or not," he continues, "I don't sleep well alone."

"I see," Kurt says. He keeps the smile left by the laughter, but crosses his arms over his chest. He's not sure what this is, why Blaine's here.

Blaine holds up a cylinder of stacked metal food containers. "I brought you some supper."

It's a meal Kurt needs; food was next on his to do list. He considers Blaine for a long moment, and he fails to convince himself there's any real danger here. So Kurt tips his head back in invitation and takes a step back into Betty's interior. "Come up then."

They sit on a thick blanket on the floor, and Blaine undoes the metal canisters, one by one. He's brought a savory broth flecked with tendrils of egg, noodles with vegetables (or at least their reconstituted doppelgangers), and three generous slices of dark chocolate mousse cake with raspberry jam filling. Kurt knows the bakery where he got it, and it's a favorite.

"So this is your ship?" Blaine says. He dunks his plastic spoon in his soup in a manner Kurt's sure is meant to be idle, but Blaine's shoulders are too rigid.

Kurt nods and swallows a mouthful of noodles. "Yep, this is Betty," he says, aiming for casual himself. Rachel once told him he's often inadvertently intimidating.

"She's… uh… " Blaine looks around him at the dimly lit space with its close metal bulkheads and lack of human comfort and amenities. His eyes are wide.

"Cramped?" Kurt supplies. "Inhospitable?"

Blaine exhales an embarrassed chuckle.

"It's okay," Kurt says, poking through his noodles in search of a decent sized chunk of mycoprotein. He flashes Blaine a grin. "She doesn't need flattery to fly."

"And you're alone for the whole journey?"

"Yeah, though, to be fair, for all but two hours of it, I'm in there." With his thumb, Kurt indicates the oblong cryopod set vertically into the wall. "Chilling."

"Right," Blaine says, he glances at the pod only fleetingly, then he blinks and smiles, and for the first time Kurt's been with Blaine, his smile seems forced.

"Hey, you sing," Kurt says, trying to salvage some degree of comfort between them. "Obviously, given how we met." The memory brings its own warmth: Kurt's first day on the station with his brand new Guild membership. He'd been homesick and scared on the eve of his first run. He'd been drawn into The Blue Bar by music and a warm voice, singing old Sinatra, smooth as silk. Kurt hums a few bars.

_"Today I may not have a thing at all_  
_Except for just a dream or two…"_

With color rising on his cheeks, Blaine ducks his head and says, "Yes."

"I don't suppose you have both perfect pitch and a four octave range?" Kurt asks lightly, and then he adds, "Although three and a half would do."

"No, I'm sorry, Kurt, I don't." Blaine looks up again, genuinely regretful.

And so Kurt has to explain, "No, it's fine. Blaine, you're an amazing singer, and I would never expect—that was meant to be a joke. I know you can't tune Betty's drive. Well, unless you could tune her on pop standards."

"Oh, right," Blaine says. "Sorry."

"Crap. That was… supposed to be a joke too." Kurt takes a deep breath that makes his ribs spasm painfully. He grits his teeth, exhales through his nose until the twinge subsides, and picks up his thought. "I'm failing at humorous teasing, and I'm sorry. I meant what I said: you're amazing, and you know every song people request, no matter how obscure or antique. It's impressive. You're very impressive."

"Thank you," Blaine says. Just that, simple gratitude that shines in his beautiful eyes for a long moment that steals Kurt's breath, and Kurt wishes he could get used to being looked at that way.

But letting Blaine into his space like this may not be the best idea Kurt's ever had. He's never seen Blaine off his game—or this fragile seeming. Kurt wants to ask him what's wrong, but he's not sure he'll be able to do anything with the answer. So Kurt says nothing more than, "You're welcome," and he turns his attention back to his food.

"How are you feeling?" Blaine asks to break the next awkward silence.

Kurt shrugs dismissively. "You know."

"I don't actually," Blaine says gently, but there's a query there, too. Which Kurt doesn't want to answer.

"Okay," Kurt says, and he sets his bowl down. "Full disclosure. You're uncomfortable, and I don't know why, which is making me uncomfortable, and I've never been all that great at alleviating mutual social discomfort, Blaine."

Blaine's smile fades and he bows his head with a grimace. "I certainly didn't come to make you uncomfortable, Kurt."

"Then why did you? Come?"

A flicker of a real smile, but dimmed with a hesitant vulnerability. "I came because I like you."

"You like me."

"Why the incredulity?"

"Most people don't like me," Kurt says. "I've been told I'm not even a taste that can be acquired. Industrially processed algae cubes have got nothing on me."

Blaine laughs this time, properly. "I'll consider myself in good company then, in liking you."

Kurt shares a smile with Blaine. It's distressingly pleasant. "But I keep saying the wrong things," Kurt says.

"Kurt, you really should know by now," Blaine says, and his smile pulls into a teeth-revealing grin. He sets his bowl aside and reaches across the space between them to fold his palm over Kurt's too bony wrist. He cocks his head. "You don't have to try so hard to impress me."

Now Kurt laughs.

.

**Kindred.**

Technically, they've known each other for just over two Earth years. In practice—since Kurt's slept for most of the past two years—they've spent less than a week's worth of time together. And yet, it's impossible, no matter how Kurt reminds himself of the timeline of it, not to feel like Blaine knows him as well as Kurt's been known by anyone—better in some fundamental ways. Ways that, in somber moments of solitary reflection, occasionally terrify Kurt, for when he goes to Blaine, it's when he's at his most unguarded and desperate. Sometimes he wonders if it's right that anyone knows another person in such a way. But along the way, necessity overcame his dignity. Kurt tries to keep what he can for himself, but Blaine is…

Blaine is here with him now, and Kurt doesn't know what to do, now that the food is gone. So, Kurt surprises himself when, after Blaine has neatly packed up the dishes and stood, Kurt takes the hand Blaine offers him. (And he's grateful of Blaine's strength in helping him stand.)

Once standing, Kurt isn't sure what to say to the quiet, contemplative look Blaine directs at him. At least the swoop of dizziness that dims his vision at the edges, Kurt knows is only low blood pressure. Still, he reaches for Betty's wall so he won't swoon into Blaine's arms like some kind of ancient romance heroine.

"Why don't you come up top with me?" Blaine says, and his gaze is wide open in invitation. "My apartment's more comfortable than Betty's floor, which is only marginally less comfortable than that shoebox you've rented." Blaine touches Kurt's arm lightly. "If neither of us is sleeping, then we can at least not sleep together."

But despite the draw of Blaine's request, and how much the thought of another night in Blaine's care comes with the promise of easing every weary hurt within him, Kurt's attention catches on the pin at Blaine's lapel: the intricate gold knot that pronounces Blaine's status as a registered Host. "You know I can't afford more time with you," Kurt says.

"I'm not soliciting your custom," Blaine says warmly. "I'm inviting you home with me for the remainder of the night. It's a thing people do sometimes, when they like someone."

"Isn't there a rule against this sort of thing for you?"

"No," Blaine says.

"Not even an ethical guideline? Some kind of professional standard of practice?"

Blaine shakes his head. "My free time is my own. Come up with me, Kurt."

.

**Legacy.**

Walking beside Blaine along the upper deck promenade is not the way Kurt usually takes to Blaine's apartment. When he's alone, he prefers the shortest path possible, and uses the lift the entire way up, but Blaine wanted to take the longer route, ostensibly so Kurt may enjoy views of both inside the station—the top decks are open to those below, and the graceful spans of metal arches drip with dazzling technicolor mosaics of light—and outside, where the bright streaks of the nebula stream overhead.

But Kurt's less attentive to the views, and more concerned about how out of breath he's become walking up three flights of stairs from the deck below. He wills himself not to sweat, and tries not to pant, which makes both his head and lungs feel stuffy. Blaine pauses at the railing. Relieved, Kurt rests his weight upon the rail and breathes deeply. Blaine makes no comment on Kurt's flustered state, nor does he apologize. Kurt's grateful for Blaine's restraint.

As his heart slows, Kurt looks across to the wide viewing windows. A tug is going out to meet an automated dark matter collector. The massive ships come in so slow and heavy, that even with their smart onboard systems, a mandatory escort must guide them into the docks to ensure the safety of the station. The distinctive band of turquoise lights ringing the tug's hull blinks steadily as if in greeting. Nimbly its pilot maneuvers the compact vessel alongside the lumbering bulk of the other ship. The tug's thrusters flare in bright spurts.

Kurt mind automatically slips to thinking about the collector's drive array: it'll be a set of thirty-two amber crystals in addition to a standard array of twenty-four gray. The extra power of the amber is required to stabilize a warp field around the collector's great mass. Back in the day, Kurt was never very accomplished at tuning amber solo—his voice lacked the power and timbre in its upper range—but he could offer complement to a stronger singer, like Rachel, to tune them in duet. At least he could until… Kurt touches his fingertips to his throat where regret is lodged like a sharp stone.

He misses it. It had been his dream, and tuning like that? That moment when he would discover the precise right pitch, pressure, and intensity for the final crystal, and the whole array would come together and sing like a chorale. The resonance of the crystals' voices with his own (and that of his occasional partner) would swell within and enfold him in a moment of such pure joy, he can't imagine anything ever coming close to it. Not even—he allows himself a wry smile—very good sex.

Which makes Kurt wonder. He studies Blaine's profile, the relaxed line of his mouth, the calm in his gaze. The whole aura of contentment he has, Kurt envies it. "So is this what you dreamed of doing when you were young?" Kurt asks.

Blaine's lips twitch into a smile."Ask a nice boy home with me, or live on a space station at the edge of the galaxy?"

Kurt snorts a laugh. "Nice boy?" He asks, and then he reaches out and touches Blaine's lapel pin. "No, I meant this."

Blaine nods and lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug. "Growing up, I always knew I had the opportunity," Blaine says. "There was a place for me reserved at the College because of my mother and grandmother, who were both Hosts before me. But I was at the Dalton Music School throughout my adolescence, to keep my prospects open. It took me a while to decide if I wanted to make the commitment Hosting requires, and I came to the College late."

"And are you happy? Hosting?"

The smile Blaine turns on him is the brightest Kurt's ever seen. "I am," he says. Then he reaches for Kurt's hand. "Come on, I know a shortcut from here."

.

"May I use your shower first?" Kurt asks. He's aware of the stained knees of his coveralls and the sweat of the day.

"You're welcome to, of course," Blaine says, but something unsure flickers in his smile. "Will you need help?" he asks.

"No, I don't think so, but…" Kurt tilts his head and softens his gaze, tries to be alluring—as alluring as he can be, such as he is in his current state: weak and dirty and gaunt. "Join me if you like?"

"I'd love to," Blaine says.

They haven't kissed before, not mouth to mouth. It's been one of Kurt's rules: no kissing on the lips. At the beginning it seemed like a sensible line to have; he's always felt kissing on the lips is for people who are in love. It's intimate.

But since then, he's done things with Blaine he's never done with anyone else. Blaine has touched him in ways he's not sure he'll ever trust another lover to.

And standing in the hot spray of the shower with Blaine looking at him with his bright crystal-amber eyes framed in his long wet lashes, Kurt wants to kiss Blaine's lips. But he's not. He's close though, pressing his mouth right beside Blaine's, just catching the corner of his open, gasping mouth. Kurt wants to kiss Blaine, but he also likes knowing it's something they haven't done together yet. All he has to do is ask. But it's good to hold a desire in his heart that doesn't seem so impossible.

They stay in the shower together until Kurt's wobbling on his feet. Blaine shuts off the water and leads him out.

.

On Blaine's bed, Kurt's flat on his back.

"Do you need it to hurt tonight?" Blaine asks softly. He's got Kurt's wrists loosely held in his hands, pinned to the mattress on either side of Kurt's head, but there's no force in Blaine's grip. His mouth is on Kurt's neck, a hot caress of lips and breath that makes a pleasant shiver scatter over Kurt's skin everywhere.

"No, I—" Kurt sucks in a quick lungful of air at the querying scrape of Blaine's teeth over a bruise left from the previous night. "You've always taken such good care of me," Kurt says. "Tell me what you want. I want to do something for you."

.

**Midnight.**

Now it's Blaine on his back, and his hands are upon Kurt's shoulders with gentle but irresistible pressure. Blaine's request is simple enough—but for the way it thrills so gloriously in Kurt's blood. Kurt lowers his weight to his elbows and drags his lips across Blaine's lax lower belly. He scoots farther down the bed and takes Blaine into his mouth. He fits his lips and tongue snug around Blaine's flesh as he slides up and down. Blaine hums in pleasure, and Kurt's eyelids slip closed.

It's so good, and Kurt wants it so much, but his body is a wreck. He struggles to maintain a rhythm, has to keep stopping to rest the muscles of his neck and jaw. Blaine pets his hair and face and reassures him each time, but Kurt knows he must be frustrated.

"I'm sorry," Kurt says, pulling off as the tension in Blaine's thighs mounts for what must be the sixth time without the desired consequence. Kurt breathes heavily and rests his cheek in the smooth hollow of Blaine's hip. "I can't keep this up." He squeezes his eyes shut hold back the blur of his disappointment. He's too out of sorts to even accomplish this?

"Hush," Blaine says, and coaxes Kurt up into his arms. Blaine strokes his back and kisses his cheek. "You're doing beautifully."

"No," Kurt says. "I'm not. That was—maybe? The only thing you've actually asked me for, and I wanted so much to do it for you."

"Hey," Blaine says. "It's just a blow job. But if you want to keep going, we have options if you're tired."

"I really do," Kurt says, pushing himself back up to his elbows. "What did you have in mind?"

"Here," Blaine says. And his hands are more insistent then, guiding Kurt over and arranging the pillows behind him until Kurt's propped comfortably against headboard. "Comfortable?" Blaine asks with an encouraging smile. He waits for Kurt's nod, and then he straddles Kurt's chest. With one hand curled around himself, offering, he says, "Like this."

"Oh," Kurt replies, "Yeah," and he reaches for Blaine to pull him back in.

"Just… ah… stay open for me," Blaine says. "I'll do the rest."

So with the pillows supporting his weight, Kurt lets Blaine find his own pace. Kurt's mouth is sloppy and open around Blaine's cock. His fingers dig into the strong flex of Blaine's buttocks. One of Blaine's hands cradles his jaw so tenderly, the other is a little bit rough in his hair, tugging, angling, and holding Kurt just how he wants him. It's overwhelming how saturated Kurt's senses are with Blaine: taste and scent, friction and pull. The rough sound of his voice, how it breaks and cracks with each deepening moan. Kurt grows more and more aroused in response, until he's hot and squirming and panting through his nose. And he's so gratified by Blaine's pleasure, Kurt scarcely requires a touch in return.

.

After, sleep finds them both, blissfully. But Kurt wakes after less than an hour, so it wasn't even one full cycle. He dreamed though, in vague flares of dread and shadow. He shifts within Blaine's embrace, careful not to jostle him. In the dark, Kurt blinks at the black walls and tries to pull the thread of his fatigue back into unconsciousness. It's futile. He thinks about kissing Blaine awake, but he doesn't.

A glance at Blaine's clock shows midnight on the station was nearly three hours ago. It's another day.

.

In the morning, over sweet, cinnamon-spiced coffee in bed—which Blaine has topped with real cream, whipped into soft peaks—Blaine asks him, "So when are you leaving this time?"

"Oh." It's a fair question. "Five days," Kurt says. "Well, four now."

Blaine's eyebrows rise. "That's soon. Isn't that the minimum—?"

"Yeah," Kurt says, glances down at the drape of the white sheets over his lap, and he tries to sound flippant, like this isn't cause for Blaine's concern. "I know, it's not much time, but I have to meet my schedule, or there's a fine to pay."

"Kurt," Blaine says, so sadly, and with an urgency Kurt's not accustomed to hearing from Blaine. "You have to know—"

"Please, don't," Kurt whispers. The lingering warmth within him fades.

"—you're killing yourself. This is killing you."

It hangs between them, a truth Kurt can't protest. He knows, in ways he doesn't wish to acknowledge aloud, that Blaine's right. He's not recovering this time, not the way he should. It's as though his body has stalled, or he's lost something essential to being alive that he'll never get back. There's a cell deep weariness that doesn't want to heal. Kurt looks at his body, so pale and malnourished, like he's got a wasting disease. Across the bed from him, Blaine is perfect and warm, flush with health and vigor. In comparison, Kurt feels like he's already a corpse.

Kurt draws his knees up, and sips his coffee. He doesn't need to heal, he just needs to endure three more runs. "I don't need you to save me," Kurt says, and he hopes that will be the end of it.

But Blaine frowns and presses his lips together. "Can't someone else do your run this time?"

_"No,"_ Kurt says, and his anger prickles within him, cold and sharp on his tongue. He sets aside his drink. "God, is that why you invited me here last night? To try to… lecture me or tell me how to live my life?"

If anything, Blaine looks sadder—and disappointed. No trace of his customary smile bends his lips and his expressive eyes are glassy. Gently—so gently—he says, "What life are you living? You're not living, you're killing yourself in pieces. I don't understand."

"I've never asked for your understanding, Blaine. I don't need you to understand anything about me. I just need you to—" Kurt snaps his mouth shut.

"You need me to do what, Kurt?"

Kurt gets up, and the combination of anger and pride lends him enough strength, he collects his clothes and dresses without faltering. Then he stalks out of Blaine's bedroom. He shouldn't have come. Shouldn't have accepted Blaine's meal in the hangar last night. Shouldn't have even walked into that stupid bar two years ago.

Still nude, Blaine follows him to the door. "Tell me, please. What do you need?"

"Nothing," Kurt says harshly, and then more softly as he tries to hold back the bitter rush of tears, "Nothing at all."

.

**Needle.**

"Hmmm," the Guild tuner says. It's not the usual guy, but the girl he saw playing the piano in The Blue Bar that first night he was back. Marley Rose, she said her name was. Which sounds more lounge singer than technician. But she's got her Guild contract and certification as a tuner, and Kurt can't deny, she's got the voice for it. She seems too young to be out here on the edge of everything. It's hard for Kurt to fathom that she's probably only four years his junior. Maybe it's just that he feels so old these days.

"Hmmm?" Kurt prompts.

Marley tucks her hair behind her ear and lowers the atomic 'scope in her hand. She's given Betty's drive a far more thorough check than her predecessor. Youth has its benefits, she's neither burned out nor careless with routine. "There's no stress fractures or serious deformation yet, but you've got a dislocated attenuator," she says. "Number twenty-three, your F6." She rests the tip of her finger on the delicate point of the gray crystal.

"Wait… what?" Kurt says, and he crouches down beside her. The possibility didn't even occur to him—the previous Guild tuner definitely didn't check for it. "But she had a clean bill of sale and a Guild warrant when I bought her." And he paid well for what that warrant's supposed to mean.

"Well," Marley says. She passes the 'scope to Kurt and gives him an apologetic smile. "See for yourself. Someone fudged the records. Your ship's had a mismatched replacement, maybe done on the cheap? Certainly not by anyone with Guild certification. So that's why she won't hold her tune. I'm really sorry."

"Fantastic," Kurt mutters. He adjusts the scope, looks, and finds she's right. One crystal with a lattice out of sync with its mates will seem just fine on its own—and it'll tune with the rest of the array—but as the drive sings, it'll diverge from the pattern slowly, causing dissonance, interference—and eventually damage to itself or other crystals in the array. When individual crystals in an array are replaced, they're matched carefully at the atomic level, to avoid dislocation. A dislocated crystal is not a common problem.

"The good news is, the Guild will pay for a complete new set," Marley says. She takes the 'scope back from Kurt and stands up. "I'll draw up the paperwork and put in the order for you."

"Right. And then it'll take them six weeks to process and approve the request." Kurt fortifies himself to stand, casually reaches for the top of the drive casing as he pushes himself up from the floor. He takes a deep breath and sighs it out. Closes his eyes while his blood catches up to his head. "I don't have the time or the money to wait."

"I know the penalty fines are hard to negotiate," Marley says. "But even if I tune her now? It's not going to hold."

"It should hold for one run," Kurt says with more confidence than he feels. "Betty's a good ship, she pulled through the last one. We can install the new array for her when I get back."

But Marley wrinkles her nose. "I wouldn't recommend it. You used to tune, right? So you know as well as I do, there's a chance the whole array will blow out. The stress, if it propagates, can have catastrophic consequences. The regs don't prohibit it, but you shouldn't run a drive in this state."

"Yes," Kurt says. "I know." Any day can bring catastrophe, Kurt also knows. He'll take his chances. He can thread this needle. The universe owes him one. "But please get her ready to go for me, and let me know when the paperwork is ready for my signature."

"Sure, okay," Marley says with an unhappy grimace and sympathetic eyes. "I'll do my best with her." She reaches out and squeezes Kurt's shoulder before she goes. "But, to be honest? You look like you could use a break too."

Kurt's getting tired of people looking at him like that.

.

Since he came to the hangar directly from Blaine's, Kurt makes his way back up to the gallery to get a green protein shake with a double caffeine shot. The morning bustle surges around him as he makes himself walk the perimeter while he drinks it. The least he can do is try to maintain what strength he has. He doesn't want to go down to the clinic and visit the therapists there. They might revoke his fit-to-fly status, or worse, pump him full of stimulants and steroids. He's not ready to accept that outcome for himself, not with two more runs after this one. If he survives it. If Betty does.

He can't afford the doubt any better than he can afford the time, but maybe he should call his Dad before he goes.

.

In the shower in his rented efficiency, he cranks up the water with enough heat and pressure to pound his skin red, Kurt's fingers find the soreness in his arms and across his ribs. His neck and shoulders. He kneads the muscles he can reach until the sharp pains dull. But the one in his chest he can't ease. He lets himself cry anyway.

.

He lies on his narrow bunk with its thin foam mattress and wishes for sleep. His mind wanders of its own accord. Kurt hasn't the psychic will to stop it. It meanders about uselessly, revisiting loss, regret, and failure. Which keeps bringing him to Blaine, and how he can't take back his harsh words or bitter thoughts, or how he walked out this morning. He should have tried to answer Blaine's question at least. After everything Blaine has done for him, paid for or not, Kurt's mistaken not to afford him that basic consideration.

So what does he need from Blaine? To take care of Kurt when he needs it, and to not care too much about him when he doesn't?

No. Kurt's not so mercenary, not even now.

"To love me enough to let me go," Kurt dares to say to the bare metal overhang close above his face. Even though Kurt wishes he could stay. Even though love is impossible, and even though Kurt knows he should never mistake Blaine's compassion for it. He needs Blaine to let him go.

_"Stay. As long as you want,"_ Blaine had said to him.

In his weakness, in the safety of Blaine's care, Kurt's desire took him immediately to assume—not an afternoon, a day, or a week, but some kind of always. Or at least a time without a fixed or near expiration. Kurt's desire though, comes with the relentless undertow of need, but he can't permit himself to confuse what he wants with what is necessary. He should be brave enough answer Blaine's question: He needs Blaine to let him go, even though he doesn't want him to.

And if this is Kurt's last opportunity? He wonders what else Blaine may want. If Kurt can't stay, is there is something more Kurt could give him, not with any sort of expectation or exchange, but just because, really, he likes Blaine too.

.

**Occasion.**

That evening finds Kurt standing at the open door of his narrow wardrobe and trailing his fingers down the sleeves of the fine jackets and shirts he's not worn since coming to the station. Some are two years or more out of fashion. He pulls a black felt blazer out. Its cut is classic—slim, three button, with a narrow notch lapel. But is has some details, raw edges with contrasting white overlocked stitching to keep those edges from fraying. It's one of his favorites, and holds memories of school nights out with Rachel in the city, planetside on New Sierra, spending too much money on ridiculous cocktails and not enough on their board.

His touch lingers on the sleeve of a shirt with a tiny paisley print in shades of green, gold, and orange. This he remember wearing for the first time on his first trip up the orbital elevator to the ship yards. A freshman class field trip during orientation—they toured the drive chambers of dozens of vessels. Kurt took notes and video on his wearable the whole time. Rachel asked to borrow them after class; he gave her copies. It was how they met.

Kurt pulls both the shirt and the jacket out and drapes them on his bunk. He chooses slacks: black stove pipe with a narrow shadow-stripe. They once clung to his thighs like a lover's fond attention, but they're loose around his legs now, come to rest lower on his hips than they should. And, as expected, the shirt is no longer snug over his chest once buttoned. At least the blazer still fits the breadth of his shoulders.

He dusts off his patent leather boots, the pair with a fine silver buckle over the ankle, and then he looks in his wooden box of accessories to see what other embellishment he may add. His tuner's badge rests among the cufflinks and brooches. He touches it briefly in a moment of longing, and then selects a _fleur de lis_ pin that belonged to his mother.

.

He doesn't know if Blaine is with a client tonight, but when he gets to Blaine's apartment, the indicator by his door is dark, so he's not home. Down to the gallery level Kurt goes, and as he approaches The Blue Bar, he hears the piano, strings, and horns filter out to twine among the sounds of the pedestrians on the promenade. He hears Blaine's voice: bright and energetic. It pulls him in just as he knew it would.

Marley's there too, seated atop the piano with a microphone dangling from her hand. She twists her shoulders in time and grins down at Blaine as he plays and sings up at her:

_"And wait 'til you see that sunshine day, _  
_you ain't seen nothing yet!"_

Then she raises her microphone and takes up next the verse:

_"The best is yet to come and babe, won't it be fine?_  
_The best is yet to come, come the day you're mine…"_

They toss the lines back and forth playfully, and their joint performance charisma is palpable. There's not an unsmiling or bored face in the joint. Kurt takes a seat at the bar and orders his usual. It's only after the bartender slides his tumbler across the bar, that it hits Kurt: Marley and Blaine know each other. Of course they do, but it brings a trickle of apprehension, as if he's overexposed himself somehow. Has Marley told Blaine about Betty? Did Blaine tell her his concerns? Is that why she looked at him the way she did?

Kurt tips his glass against his lips, lets the alcohol just meet his lips without taking a full sip yet. He inhales long and deep, and only then takes a mouthful. It burns across his tongue, and the aroma flares in the back of his nose. Blaine and Marley finish out "The Best is Yet to Come". Neither of them has noticed him yet. He considers leaving, but he came here for a reason tonight, and he wants to watch them.

Marley slips off the piano and smooths her lace dress. She bends near Blaine to whisper in his ear. He nods, and once the applause fades, he begins playing again, opening with a wistful trill. The band remains silent, resting their instruments.

Between one flourish and the next, the piano is sedate and sonorous. It builds up to a pause that hangs while Marley lifts the microphone.

_"Desperado,"_ she sings, and Blaine rejoins her on the piano, low and gentle. "_Why won't you come to your senses?"_

Her voice aches over the words. She sways into it and closes her eyes, holds the microphone in both hands. Admiration shines in Blaine's eyes as he watches her, and Kurt feels the song all the way to his soles of his feet. The shift in mood catches him inside, a snag to his heartbeat and a stutter in his lungs. The song is not for him, he knows that. The way Marley sings it lets him know this is a song fueled from her heartbreak and longing; it's her story, not his. Yet, he can't look away from Blaine when she gets to the crescendo:

_"You better let somebody love you, _  
_Before it's too late."_

And Kurt knows he's in the right place tonight.

.

"Hey," Blaine says. It's cautious, but friendly. He stands near the empty stool next to Kurt, and his hand hovers near the back of it, as if needing permission. His hair's come loose into waves and his face is flushed. He's set aside the jacket he wore earlier in the evening, and Kurt can smell the heat off his body, sweat and cologne. It pulls at his insides.

"Please, sit," Kurt says, and he turns toward Blaine as he does. It's late, the band has gone, and the bar is close to empty. Kurt's stayed through every performance. He doesn't want to miss a moment, now that he's here. The music has left his heart cracked open and tender. He's infused with new emotion, and against all reason, he feels hopeful. "You and Marley," he says. "Wow. I haven't experienced a performance like that in so long. You're both so—" he fumbles. "Present and honest."

But some trepidation lingers in the shallow bend of Blaine's smile. "I'm glad you came," Blaine says. "After you left this morning, I didn't know if I'd see you again."

"I'm so sorry about… all of that," Kurt says. "May I buy you a drink?" He lifts a hand to catch the bartender's attention.

"Oh, yes, thanks," Blaine says to Kurt, and to the bartender, he says, "A Jack Rose, please?"

"On the house," the bartender replies.

Kurt laughs softly and turns his own drink between his hands. "Never mind."

"I get all my drinks free here," Blaine reassures him. "It's the thought that counts, right?"

"So they say," Kurt says, and he flicks a glance and a smile at Blaine. He doesn't understand how he can feel this nervous around a man with whom he's already been naked—literally and figuratively.

Blaine laughs too. "Um, so?" Blaine starts slowly, and Kurt is encouraged. At least he's not the only one with nerves. But the look Blaine turns on him reflects all the tenderness Kurt's gathered in his heart tonight, and all the vulnerability along with it. "You look very handsome tonight," Blaine says. "What's the occasion?"

The question is blessedly simple to answer. Kurt can see the truth of it in Blaine's lovely eyes. "You."

.

**Please.**

Soft jazz plays over the house speakers. Kurt sits at the bar with Blaine, and the neon tubes above them tinge their hands blue. "I need you to understand," Kurt says. "There are things I can't do, no matter how much I may want to." They've been talking for a while, topics of less consequence, favorite songs, favorite performances. Deciding on a place to have breakfast together in a few hours. But some harder things have been lurking at the edges of their conversation—in the shadow of Blaine's gaze and the pauses that rest a heartbeat too long. Kurt can't leave them unsaid.

"Like?" Blaine asks.

"Stay." Though he tries, Kurt can't make himself keep smiling. It just makes his lips tremble. "I can't stay. I have to make this run."

Blaine looks down into the bowl of his glass, his fingers press either side of its stem. "I wish you didn't."

Kurt lays a hand upon Blaine's forearm. "It doesn't mean I don't care for you, it doesn't mean I wouldn't rather stay here with you."

"Kurt, even if you were in perfect health, your ship? You might not make it back this time."

So Marley did tell him. Kurt nods. "I won't lie to you. That is a very real possibility."

"If you want to help your family? How is this helping your family?"

"I have a Plan B."

"Then why not—do whatever that plan is. It's got to be better than what you're doing now."

"If only," Kurt says. "But it's not. Plan B is what happens if I don't make it back."

"Oh."

Haltingly, Kurt explains. "I have life insurance with the Guild. It's a flat amount plus the value of the run I didn't make and the next job on my docket. It wouldn't be enough if I hadn't got this far already, and it's still not quite enough, but it's close, and maybe they can make up the difference." He's never said any of this aloud, just done the math in his head and hoped he'd never have to seriously consider this a viable backstop.

"And, um, if Betty makes it and I don't, I've requested that the money from her sale goes to my family too. Though, that's less likely; the Guild is disinclined to honor those requests when the pilot owns their own ship and is registered with the Guild."

Blaine stares at him. "I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified."

"Obviously, it's not my best case. It's not what I want."

"What's your best case, then? What do you want? What's your ideal outcome."

"Within the constraints of reality?"

"Sure."

"I make these last three runs and so does Betty. My father gets a new heart. I go home to see him. Maybe take a break there. Then I go back to New Sierra and I see if I can requalify with the Tuning Federation, and I—" Kurt sighs and shakes his head.

"And?"

"I don't know how it fits with everything else yet, but I…" Kurt closes his eyes and makes himself continue. "I want to let myself fall in love with you. But in all my planning, I didn't anticipate you, and I know that—given the commitments of your profession? I know you can't promise me anything, and I'd never ask you to. I'd never expect you to leave here or fall in love with me too or, anything really? I don't know how this part can ever work. I just know that I want you to be in my life."

No response from Blaine comes. When Kurt cautiously opens his eyes again, he finds Blaine considering him with a surprisingly relaxed and amused smile, his cheek propped in his hand.

"What don't I know here?"

"You know the family that built the Oasis Station?"

"Um?" Kurt frowns as he thinks. It's a fancy three-syllable name, begins with a 'D' he's sure. "The Davenports?"

"The Dolloways," Blaine corrects. "They're based on New Sierra."

"Okay?"

"Their matriarch is… one of my clients."

"Wait…" Kurt's frown deepens as he tries to think of who Blaine means, then he realizes, and his eyebrows rise toward his hairline. June Dolloway is one of the wealthiest people in the sector. "Isn't she, like, a hundred and fifty or something?"

Blaine laughs and shakes his head. "Close, and, oh, your face, Kurt. It's not like what you're thinking."

"I'm not sure if that's better or worse," Kurt says wryly.

Blaine's smile gives nothing away. "What I'm trying to tell you is, I make that trip fairly regularly."

"But… hang on. You'll be working when you're there."

"Not the whole time. We'd get to see each other."

"How often?"

"More than we do now."

Kurt lets out a breath. It's not ideal, but sometimes, he well knows, the ideal is impossible. You work with what you can. "That sounds like something I could potentially look forward to," he says.

"I forget how much you miss because you're not actually here."

"Right," Kurt says. "I know. I've slept through my last two birthdays."

"Have you?" Blaine says.

Kurt shrugs. It's not something he wants to dwell on. "So why do you live here then, Blaine? If you have connections like that on New Sierra?"

Blaine mirrors Kurt's shrug. "I came to Hosting late, as you know, which can be a detriment socially if not professionally. It's harder for men anyway," he says. "So I wanted to get away from the competition in the city. It's very… stressful. Here is more peaceful, I can freelance. And I've far more ability to actually connect with and help people, rather than simply amuse and divert them.

"The work I do on Oasis, whether in here—" Blaine indicates their surroundings, the tables and chairs, the stage with the piano. "—or in the privacy of my apartment. It matters to people in a way it wouldn't if I were just one among the many younger Hosts vying to play cocktail parties and escort fashionable socialites."

"So you're saying this is a small pond, and you like being a big fish?"

"That, and it enables me to network in my own way. I met June here on the station, not on New Sierra, where my even being in the same room as her would have been extremely unlikely. Her patronage affords me opportunities without my having had to navigate through Sierran high society or fight my way through the politics of the Host agencies."

"Oh," Kurt says. "Would you ever consider moving back then? If it's that… fraught."

"I might, under the right circumstances."

Blaine's smile makes Kurt wonder if he could become a right circumstance. But that hope is so much to hold. It seems volatile. "I can't believe I'm even talking about this, the future like it's…"

"Like it's what?"

"Possible." Kurt says, and he flushes with warmth at the audacity of that confession.

Then Blaine says, "So why don't you let yourself fall in love with me now?" And the warmth drops to flood Kurt's belly.

"Because—"

"Come on, dance with me." Blaine stands and offers Kurt his hand. Etta Jones sings around them. Smooth and slow.

The unsteadiness in Kurt's legs is more than weakness from disuse. But he goes into Blaine's arms without stumbling. Blaine pulls him into a close embrace, and as they sway together, Blaine sings softly along.

_"There were birds in the sky_  
_But I never saw them winging_  
_No I never saw them at all_  
_Till there was you"_

His breath past Kurt's ear makes Kurt shiver so pleasantly, and the press of their bodies together, the tender weight of Blaine's arms make Kurt want to stay so badly. Here, like this. But he can't. So he says it, as much for himself as for Blaine: "You have to let me go, Blaine. When it's time."

Blaine just pulls him closer, and kisses Kurt's cheek near his ear. "There's an art to it, you know. Being in love with a person."

"I don't understand."

"I'm in love with all my clients when I'm with them. But I can always let them go, Kurt."

The words refuse to settle. A cold confusion sweeps through his head, and Kurt resists Blaine's embrace, tries to step back. "So have I misunderstood your feelings for me? Have a been wrong to think that you…?" Kurt's voice gives out.

"No." It's emphatic, and Blaine doesn't release him. "You're not wrong at all."

"Then?" Tentatively, Kurt relaxes back into the music, back against Blaine, but his heart beats too fast, and he doesn't understand.

"I don't want to let you go," Blaine says. "I don't think I can."

"But I need you to, Blaine, that's my answer to your question from this morning. That's what I need."

Blaine doesn't reply immediately. "I can watch you get on on your ship, and I can watch you fly away, but what I can't do is let you go from my heart. I can't stop loving you when you leave me. God knows I've tried, Kurt. You're the one I can't let go."

Oh. And Kurt hears it in Blaine's voice, the fragile tremor. Wonderingly, "are you crying?" he asks.

"Yes."

Kurt holds him tight for a time, strokes down his spine and feels Blaine's breath hot and ragged against his neck, the wetness of his tears.

"Tell me what you want, Blaine. Tell me what I can give you that I can… actually give."

"Time," Blaine says immediately, and his voice has regained its confidence. "Time is the most valuable thing we have. The three days you have left, please, spend them with me. Be in love with me, just for now, until you go."

"I… Okay."

"And there's one other thing I'd like," Blaine says. "If you're willing."

"If I can do it, then yes, of course, Blaine, anything."

Blaine steps back, takes Kurt's hand, and pulls him toward the stage. "Please? Will you sing with me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Rent.**

"Oh, I..." he reflexively protests, but didn't he just tell Blaine anything? So Kurt lets himself be pulled. "It's been a while."

"What would you like to sing?" Blaine asks, letting go of Kurt's hand and sliding onto the piano bench. He runs a few scales and smiles up at Kurt encouragingly.

"I don't know," Kurt says, curling his fingers over the edge of the baby grand's closed top and letting it take some of his weight as he pushes up to his toes and ignores his protesting calves. When was the last time he sang like this? Easy, for the simple joy of it, and with no imperative for perfection. At Tuning College recreational singing was discouraged among first and second year students, for it hampered the training of their newly developing voices into precision instruments—and there was always the danger of overuse or misuse that would cause the gene therapies to fail.

"You must have some old favorites in your repertoire," Blaine says, and he begins to transition into happy little melodies, snippets and suggestions of different options. Kurt recognizes some of them, others not so much. They span genre and time, but Blaine keeps cycling back to the old jazz standards and showtunes they both love.

"There!" Kurt says, to a familiar flourish that makes him grin so wide his cheeks hurt.

"This one?" Blaine repeats the opening.

Kurt bites his lip and nods. "You start, let me warm up a little?"

"Join me whenever you're ready," Blaine says and he begins, bright, with his voice swinging playfully over the tune.

_"Fly me to the moon_  
_Let me play among the stars "_

Kurt breathes and hums a simple harmony in counterpoint as Blaine sings the first two verses. The song is within the easy reach of Kurt's voice, won't require that he push into his upper register.

He nods to Blaine, who nods back, and goes silent as Kurt steps in on on the next verse:

_"Fill my heart with song_  
_and let me sing forever more,"_

Blaine grins and raises his eyebrows in approval, and to Kurt's own ears, his voice sounds good, steady and smooth, if lacking in volume, but that's most likely because he's still shy of putting that much pressure on his vocal folds. It's like favoring a broken ankle that's just healed. He doesn't trust it with his full weight.

Together, they sing, _"In other words, please be true_  
_In other words, I love you." _

And even spoken in song, even in performance, it makes Kurt a little hot, a little light-headed, shift a little bit out of himself to say it. He lets himself go. He lets himself fall in love with Blaine, for he knows the landing is safe.

.

The high is still with him as they make their way down a level together. Kurt's leaning some of his weight on Blaine's offered arm, and they don't take the stairs quickly. He's still out of breath from singing and the elation of it and Blaine and the ridiculous hope that's filling his chest like helium.

But, in the finish, he didn't want to push his voice too much—he still needs to be able prime Betty's array reliably— and after two drinks and no sleep, he can't tolerate well the hunger that's roused in his belly. So he and Blaine agreed it's time for an early breakfast, and there's a pancake bar—Furious George's—open all hours, a few decks down in the low-rent district. Kurt's relied on it in the past for calories in the odd, small hours. Many pilots do.

Blaine's never been, and on the way, Kurt tells him they have all-you-can-eat pancakes. The blueberry ones—his standard order—are made from reconstituted berries, but they're still the closest to the ones his mother used to make. Light, fluffy, tender. And the coffee is bottomless, their soy bacon strips never overcooked, and they bring in frozen banana pulp for their trademark smoothie.

It's less than impressive in its ambiance and décor. In the center of the station, there's no view, and the enameled metal surfaces are an eye-ball jarring combination of royal purple, canary yellow, and chartreuse green.

"Pretty sure that's to help keep us awake when we need it," Kurt says, and they find a booth by the far wall beneath a macrame monkey.

Once their food is served, Blaine asks Kurt, "Why'd you stop singing anyway? Your voice is amazing." Blaine's tone is conversational, his eyes curious.

It's not a story Kurt tells lightly. But tonight everything feels light, so he thinks he can bear the weight of it, here with Blaine. "There was... an accident," Kurt says. He touches his throat. "Vocal hemorrhage, a pretty bad one. It took a long time to heal, and I lost my qualifications while waiting. Then my Dad got sick, and I, well, the last two years you know well enough."

"Accident?"

"Yeah," Kurt cuts into his pancake stack with the edge of his fork, makes a neat wedge. "It was on Rachel's first big job after we graduated. She's my best friend from the College days. You'll probably get to meet her. She's coming to help out with Betty when I get back."

Blaine nods and hums his interest around a mouthful of soy bacon.

"The ship was the new military frigate? It had a bleeding tech kind of crystal array, one that was designed to not only power the ship, but also the weapons' system—the details aren't that important. But the drive array needed two singers, and Rachel asked me to help her, because we've always worked well together.

"And that went fine, no problems. We tuned the amber array perfectly, all thirty-two spears. It was exhilarating. We'd never done one that big. The sound of it—" Kurt breaks off, feels the pressure of the memory rising in his throat. "It was beautiful."

"But something went wrong?"

Kurt swallows. "Yeah, the array for the weapons' system was blue. Just twelve spears, but they're so touchy, and they don't tune in sequence, there're rules, but you have to figure it out as you work, like a puzzle? It can take hours, and this one, even small, required a full four octaves of its tuner. Which Rachel has—and which I had."

"Had?"

"Actually, I don't know what my range is now. I haven't tried."

"But you healed?"

"Yes," Kurt says. "The thing about the blues? They're fussy about the quality of the voice that sings to them. It's really easy to botch a tuning and damage the crystals. And you never really know what any given array will prefer, but in general, they prefer lighter timbres."

"Like yours."

"Like mine. I had an unusually high success rate with blues." Kurt shrugs. "They like my voice, and I have a good feel for their quirks.

"So after Rachel'd been working with that array for half the night, she was tired and frustrated and worried about her voice. They just weren't taking it from her. She hadn't damaged them—she's too good for that—but they'd been refusing to sing back to her. The job was important to her, and she didn't want to be humiliated. She asked me if I would give it a shot. I did.

"The last crystal in that array needed a sustained G6 with unusually high power behind it. Challenging for me. My upper range has more precision and purity than power. I had to force it, and I knew what I was doing was... not smart. But I had an excess of pride, so I did it anyway, believed I'd be fine, just this once. The array sang for me so gloriously, but once was enough."

"I'm sorry, Kurt," Blaine says. "I can't imagine how hard it would be, to lose that much."

"It's not the end of it for me. Or I hope it's not. I should be able to get my voice back to tuning. I miss it. But the time off was a setback, and then life intervened, and I had to find a fast way to make a large amount of money. Tuning wasn't going to cut it, so here I am."

Blaine looks at him with sympathy and gratitude. "I wish it were under better circumstances, and I know it's not much consolation for what you've been through, but I'm glad you're here with me." He reaches across the table for Kurt's hand, and Kurt reaches back.

"You might be surprised," Kurt says. "Just how much that is."

A softness lights both Blaine's eyes and his smile. He glances at the wall clock, and back at Kurt with an unspoken query.

The answer curls anticipation tight and hot in Kurt's belly. "Bedtime?" Kurt suggests.

.

It's on the way back up to Blaine's apartment that Kurt realizes this is not going to be a whirlwind fantasy romance. His body is too much an enemy to sustain days of spent frolicking in the haze of new love. He's smothering jaw cracking yawns with his palm by the time they're at Blaine's door, and his legs and spine feel as if they're about to lose their battle with the station's artificial gravity.

"I'm sorry," he says, sagging against Blaine's shoulder. "I was planning to kiss you."

Blaine's chuckle is warm. "Do you think you could manage to fall asleep?" Blaine asks him.

"Yes," Kurt says.

"Okay," Blaine says. "Then sleep. You can kiss me when you wake up."

He helps Kurt undress to nothing, and by the time he's pulling the sheets up to Kurt's chest, Kurt's eyes are closed.

.

**Scarf.**

When Kurt wakes, he's alone in Blaine's bed. For a panicked instant he fears he's just come in off a run and fallen asleep, hasn't actually woken up at all, but is in some kind of coma dream. Blaine's never left him alone before.

But then as the sleep fog clears Kurt remembers. This isn't one of those nights, and he's here by Blaine's invitation and his own choice. If he weren't safe, Blaine would be with him. All that happened was he finally slept. He's still tired, weariness is heavy and intractable, but he slept for what feels like a good stretch of time. He sits and stretches and peers at Blaine's console.

"Crap!" he says, and turns to put his feet on the floor. He's been unconscious for the whole day. It's dinner time. "Blaine?" he calls out. He doesn't see his clothes.

With a grunt, Kurt forces his reluctant body up. He stretches gingerly and takes a dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door.

His mouth feels like he's been sucking on a mouthful of sand, so he shuffles to the bathroom while he ties the robe.

Once refreshed, he makes his way out of Blaine's bedroom. "Blaine?" he calls again.

He's not spent that much time in Blaine's living area, but at the end of each run, that first entry into its rich colors and plush textures, the tasteful sensory luxury of the space Blaine inhabits and maintains, has come to feel like home and haven.

Curiously, Kurt looks at the collection of mementos on a wall shelf. Photographs of Blaine with friends and family, and diverse little objects representing locations all over the sector. Gifts from clients?

In the small kitchen a rice cooker steams contentedly on the counter, so Blaine can't be too far away. Kurt goes to the chiller to find the fortified juice Blaine keeps on hand.

He's making his way back to the living room when the door opens and Blaine comes in with two cloth sacks. Dark green leaves peek from the top of one.

"You're awake!" Blaine says, and his lovely face is so full of joy, it makes Kurt's heart skip a beat to be the cause of it.

"I'm sorry I slept the whole day away," Kurt says.

"Don't be," Blaine says over his shoulder as he goes to the kitchen. "I know how badly you needed it."

Kurt follows as far as the open bar counter that separates the kitchen from the rest of the room. He pulls out a stool and sits. "I know, but my three days with you is now only two and a half," Kurt says.

"You need the sleep to heal, Kurt. I want you in as a good a shape as possible before you go."

"That's not your job, Blaine, not anymore," Kurt says. But then smooths the defensive impulse, "But I'm grateful for your care, always, thank you."

"I'm always happy to give it," Blaine says. "And, look, we'll have a wonderful night together, which will be all the more memorable for your having got some rest."

Kurt can't argue with that. "Sounds good to me," Kurt says, and he watches Blaine unpack several bunches of greens and other vegetables to the counter, and a few other fresh food items Kurt can't name. A haul like that from hydroponics is pricey for a single customer. Most of the grown foods go to the restaurants on the station. Kurt hates to think what it would have cost Blaine, but he doesn't say anything more than, "All that food looks amazing."

Blaine smiles, and sets to prepping the vegetables. Kurt gets lost in the rhythm of his knife, and the capable work of his hands. The silence between them is comfortable, and the homey sounds of the kitchen and food preparation are a surprising balm.

"Oh,"Kurt says as he shifts on the stool and the robe slips from his leg. "Where are my clothes?"

"My wardrobe," Blaine says. "You can dress if you like, but you won't be needing them."

.

The food is incredible, aromatic, fresh, and nourishing; and it's blessedly light in Kurt's stomach when Blaine leads him back to the bedroom after dessert.

Kurt reclines on the bed and watches Blaine undress. He loves not knowing what to expect, loves being here simply because he's wanted and chooses to be. It's a relief to be here without the danger and anxiety and misery of the cryoshock tainting every sensation.

"What would you like?" Blaine asks him.

"You choose," Kurt says, and he thrills when Blaine turns to the cabinet near the bed. The soft wrist cuffs are familiar, as is the ruby satin scarf Blaine uses to blindfold him. But that's all Blaine gets out. The other implements and toys Kurt's become familiar with remain in their drawers.

Blaine gets on the bed with him, and Kurt holds his hands out for the cuffs. Blaine fastens them, and then pulls Kurt's arms over his head and affixes the cuffs to the bedhead. Just the stretch of it and the immediate shock of vulnerability, makes Kurt's heart speed and his skin flush hot. Blaine touches his face. "I want to give you nothing but pleasure tonight, all right?"

"Yes," Kurt says, and Blaine covers his eyes."I still haven't kissed you," Kurt says.

"Something to look forward to," Blaine says, and then he starts.

Tonight, Blaine's touch is patient, gentle, and precise. Kurt wonders if this is what it would feel like to be a crystal, tuned by a skilled singer, for Blaine's hands and mouth play the organic lattice of his nerve endings so perfectly. It's as if he's got a map for the density and distribution of them all, and he knows precisely how to amplify, modulate, and attenuate the harmonic progression of pleasure in Kurt's body. Blaine uses nothing but his own, and takes Kurt into as deep and resonant a bliss as he's ever known with a lover.

He wishes they had more time.

.

**Twist.**

But it's time they don't have. The days pass in a bright blur, and too soon Kurt's in the cockpit running through Betty's pre-flight check while the smart-lifts scurry back and forth, in and out of her cargo bay, loading her hold with cartons of dark matter condensate.

Kurt swipes his hand across the projected HUD, verifying the cryopod is primed, all pressure tanks are charged, and primary astronav is online, spinning through its dynamic route calculations. Communications are good, life support, emergency systems… All locking mechanisms are free, and the hold sensors report optimal mass distribution.

.

He left Blaine in bed this morning, wrapped warm in the sheets, beautiful and sad. Asked him not to come down to the hangar to see him off. When Blaine asked him why, Kurt replied, "Because this isn't good bye." He kissed the tears on Blaine's cheeks and refused to shed his own even as they stuck thick in his throat. "I'll see you in three months."

.

Back in Betty's drive chamber, Kurt syncs the array. It's a simple three note harmonic to sing, and Betty takes each note he gives her, returns the trichord flawlessly. Marley tuned her well; Betty sounds better than she has all year. Kurt seals the drive casing and sets the amplifier to stand-by. Below his feet, he feels the rumble of the cargo doors grinding closed.

It's time. Kurt flicks the volume on his earpiece and speaks to the control tower.

.

On his way out of Blaine's apartment, Kurt left his mother's _fleur de lis_ pin on Blaine's shelf of mementos, below a blown glass swallow. A hope for safe return.

.

Kurt straps himself in the pilot's seat as the hangar claxon whoops. The lights ringing the pressure doors pulse a warning in red. Then they roll slowly apart, opening to the space beyond.

When the door lights go green and Kurt receives confirmation from the tower, he places a gentle hand on Betty's throttle and fires up her thrusters. Then he guides her out, keeping a careful watch on the Ball.

.

Marley and Blaine organized a last minute Bon Voyage party for him at The Blue Bar last night. But though the mood was to be uplifting and blithe, it felt to Kurt more like a wake.

.

At the transit point, Kurt checks Betty's harmonic modulation; she's singing and steady, ready to go. The astronav confirms they have a clear path.

Kurt signals his readiness and settles back to wait for the tower's reply. He refocuses his eyes and looks out at the streaming plumes of the nebula instead of at the mass of information overlaying his visual field.

.

Breathless and hot and vibrant, Blaine on his belly. Kurt inside him, too deep and dizzying to be real.

"If you're tired, we can turn over," Blaine said when Kurt paused to rest and catch his breath. Open mouthed kisses on Blaine's neck and side-turned face tasted of salt.

"No," Kurt replied. He dug his fingers into Blaine's waist and shoulder, pulling as he pushed, as if he could fit them closer together. "I want to see this through."

.

"IMV Elizabeth, you are clear to deploy your warp field," the tower says. "Fair Winds, Captain."

It makes him smile. Kurt never has got used to being called Captain. He taps in the command for Betty to ramp it up, unbuckles from his seat, and heads back.

.

Sprawled sweaty, spent, and aching in bed with Blaine last night, Blaine sang to him:

_"You told me it was so, a million dreams ago,_  
_You held me in your arms, a million dreams ago."_

Kurt kissed him so he couldn't finish the song.

.

Even through the insulation of the drive casing, Kurt can hear Betty's song, building, building, building, and it feels already like it's setting his bones and his brain buzzing into jelly. He strips down to his underwear and pops open the cryopod.

He's got it down to an efficient routine, knows he has more time than it feels like before the array's volume becomes unbearable. He dons his earmuffs, turns, and steps carefully back into the close, customized space. He's shivering already as the door clamps closed, but he's grateful for the silence, though it's never not felt like a coffin in here.

Kurt keeps his breathing deep and even and fits his arms into the monitoring cuffs. He flinches at the prick of the needle in his wrist.

.

After hours, propped sleepily on top of the piano and watching while Blaine played songs without words. Vibrations in his body, longing in his heart, and _'I love you'_ waiting to be kissed from his lips.

.

Viscous gel fills the cryopod from the bottom. Thankfully, it's a few degrees warmer than body temperature to start. He'll be unconscious by the time it chills. Kurt closes his eyes and speaks to the 'pod's controls. "Music," he says. "Playlist. For Kurt."

Blaine sent some of his performances to Betty's data store after Kurt told him he liked to listen to music as he went down into cryo. It keeps him calm.

As Betty's warp field forms, Kurt may not be able to hear it, but he feels the sickening twist of its distortion deep in his chest. The gel is up to his chin, and Blaine sings him to sleep:

_"As long as I've got arms that cling at all_  
_It's you that I'll be clinging to_  
_And all the dreams I dream, beg or borrow_  
_On some bright tomorrow will all come true_  
_And all my bright tomorrows belong to you." _

.

**Uniform.**

Coming back up is gentle enough. The gel warms, a cocktail of drugs to rouse his physiology trickles into his bloodstream, and then the 'pod drains. Kurt wakes, and permits himself a moment to reorient his mind on the tasks ahead. He has three hours to turn Betty around before the cryosickness starts. He should be back in his 'pod and on his way home within that time.

"Open," he tells the 'pod.

The last six weeks of his life are blank, as if he stopped existing. Except the gap of time and distance sits within him, some abstract sense of disjunction buried in his primordial psyche. But he won't think about what's behind him, only what he needs to do here now.

Kurt takes a single step out, gingerly shifting his weight to his leg. The muscles in his leg tremble violently and he can't firm his joints. It's like they don't even belong to him. His ankle, knee, and hip buckle without resistance. Kurt grapples for a hold on the sides of the pod, but his arms have so little strength, all he can manage is controlling his slip down to the deck. Even so, hitting the floor, the jolt is hard enough, he bites his tongue.

"Damn it."

They say a day in cryo costs your body as much as a week of bedrest. Kurt doesn't bother with the arithmetic, he just slumps on the floor and wills some strength to return to his limbs.

Out of warp, Betty's singing more softly now, sweetly holding her tune. Thank goodness.

They'll be tacking into the Marae orbital outpost on Betty's auto-pilot, but he needs to get himself to the cockpit for docking procedures. And he has to be able to get off the ship to complete the transaction.

"Come on, Betty," he says. "If you've made it this far, so can I." Kurt visualizes his intended sequence of actions. How he'll unfold his limbs, how he'll distribute his weight. He notes where the handholds are, where he'll place his feet, maps out the familiar, short route to the pilot's chair.

He gives himself five more minutes to wallow in uselessness, and then he hauls himself up with painstaking determination. He clings to the handhold with white knuckles and opens one of the supply compartments. His gaze rests on the packet of stim shots for a few beats. Instead he grabs a tube of lemon-flavored fortified glucose syrup, tears the tab off the end, and sucks it down in cloying sweet mouthfuls. It helps.

He makes it to the cockpit, each heavy breath a rough scour in his throat. The chill from cryo lingers, and his whole body spasms in fits of shivering. Kurt clenches his teeth until they pass, and then he signals the outpost.

The reply he gets is non-verbal, just a sequence of coordinates to his assigned docking port.

Below the ovoid outpost, the ocean planet of Pan Mares is serene and blue beneath pale smears of cloud. It's in the deepest reaches of the planet's oceans that the precious array crystals grow. The Marae uses for them are limited to amplifying long distance communications and data transfers on their space probes. They can't tune them to generate warp fields or power weapons systems, for they don't have voices.

It was a robotic exploration probe that made it across the expanse between galaxies that brought them into contact with humanity. The Marae themselves don't travel physically between the stars.

.

Once Betty is fitted snug into her dock, Kurt attempts movement again. It's easier this time, but his body aches and feet still drag along the floor, causing him to trip more than once on his way to the water lock. He moves sluggishly but methodically to get his wetsuit on. He checks that its gills and LED's are functional and activates the low light enhancement overlay as well as his translation interface.

In the lock, the illumination is dim. He holds the railing as it fills with water. The buoyancy the water provides eases the ache in his joints and the heaviness of his limbs. Once the lock is full, he adjusts the density of his suit's shell so he neither floats nor sinks, and he pushes himself toward the entry hatch.

On the other side, it's far darker. A string of faint gold lights along the wall shows him the way to take. There's traction and hand holds to be found, and the path takes Kurt up a steep sloping tunnel. At the top, he's met by one of the Marae. Zie hangs in the water before Kurt, with zir long tapered cerata fanned out like great wide wings behind zim. In the murky darkness of the water, zie glows a pale silvery white and zir soft body flexes and ripples with a symmetrical pattern of violet light along zir ruffled flanks.

"Greetings, person-visitor," his translation computer says in his ear.

Kurt's never been sure if zie is the same one who always meets him, or whether zie is a different individual each time. He can't discern any differences in the Marae he meets, and Kurt's never been given a name—nor has he been asked for his own.

But he speaks softly in greeting, "Hello, fellow person," and the LEDs on his suit ripple violet to match the Marae's display.

Zir facial tentacles elongate and then curl in response, and around zir eyespots there's a warm gold flush, a sign of friendliness, recognition, and welcome.

Some of the pilots on the Andromeda run call the Marae slugs for their resemblance to the nudibranch sea slugs of Earth's oceans, but Kurt's always found the slang term rude. He doesn't know what they call themselves, but he always does his best to be respectful.

The Marae turns with a graceful corkscrew twist of zir body, and a pattern of green and blue flashes along zir dorsal surface.

"Please, person-visitor, follow kindly."

The reason for the brief ritual tour Kurt's certain is little more than a show of correct manners for the Marae, but it's an essential component to successful trade. He enjoys it every time. The movement in the water is so easy and comfortable after coming out of cryo, and the quiet soothes too. The Marae zimself is beautiful to watch in motion, even if Kurt doesn't require confirmation that the sequence of five chambers through which he's led are empty.

In each one, they pause in the center and the Marae flickers blue and gold.

"The room is round and large." his translation computer says in his ear.

Each time, he gives the response required, "Zie is generous and true," and his suit glows pink.

Once that's done, the Marae leads him down to the cargo transfer area. The cartons of dark matter condensate have been unloaded by the smart lifts into a wide airlock that also contains sixteen flat crates holding cut and polished array crystals. The viewing window into the wide airlock shows Betty's cargo hold stands open and clear, ready for the crates of crystals to be loaded.

"The hold is empty," Kurt says, and waits for the flicker of blue and gold on his arms to communicate it to the Marae.

"He is generous and true," the computer says as the Marae replies with a pink flush of zir body. "Please accept this exchange."

So Kurt signals the smart-lifts to begin loading the crystals. They scan each crate as they go, and his weaarble bings softly with each item ticked off the loading manifest.

Now that he's not moving, Kurt toggles the density of his suit and lets his feet sink to the floor beneath him. He winces at the dull flare of pain that lances up his legs even at that gentle impact. Beside him the Marae faces the window too, undulating gently in place. The gold glow remains around zir face and zir tentacles lazily stretch and curl.

Kurt wishes communication were easier, and he knows there are diplomats who devote their professional careers to working with the Marae, but that doesn't mean he's not curious here. At least there's no requirement to make small talk, and waiting quietly with the Marae while the smart-lifts do their work isn't uncomfortable.

But an ache grows in his head as they wait, like a great clawed hand is slowly closing around the back of his neck, and Kurt can feel the too rapid thump of his blood surging in his ears, like an incoming tide.

The cocktail of drugs that roused him from cryo is wearing off already? A swoop of disorienting fatigue causes him to lose his hold on the rail, and he stumbles against the window before righting himself and blinking furiously. Kurt forces his eyes wide. His breath puffs loudly in the confined space of his helmet. An irrational urge to pull it off rises within Kurt, to bare himself to the cool water around him, but he quashes the impulse.

He's always with Blaine by the time it gets like this. The sickness isn't meant to assail him here. He's meant to have three clear hours to do his business before—

His stomach cramps, and Kurt gasps at the pain of it and doubles over. He's too hot in his wetsuit. Needs to get out of it, get back to Betty, get back in the 'pod and turn the fuck around. Except in the right order.

Then comes mild pressure around his waist. Kurt looks down to see one of the Marae's lateral tentacles has extended to wrap around him in support. He looks up at zim. Zir face has darkened to a bruised purple shade, and zir facial tentacles droop down toward Kurt's face. One touches the transparent face plate near Kurt's cheek. A mottled greenish-gray blooms across the Marae's body.

"Concern," his translation says. "Person-visitor is unwell."

Kurt tries to swallow the nausea creeping up his throat. "Travel sickness," he says, and his suit flashes a display that sends a skitter of red down his arms.

"Wait and rest for a time here?" the Marae asks, gently pulsing brighter and indigo blue. "Facilities for person-visitor requirements exist."

"No, I cannot stay," Kurt says, and he closes his eyes. "Please, help me return to my ship. I have to return home." He doesn't know how much of that his algorithms can successfully translate into colored pulses of light, but the reply he receives is clear enough:

"I will help."

The Marae flattens zir cerata along zir dorsal surface and extends zir other three lateral tentacles, carefully wrapping them around Kurt as gently as one would bundle a newborn in a blanket.

Zie flutters magenta and violet. "With great care and speed. Hold, please."

Which Kurt takes as a warning. He holds on to what he can, feels the strange yielding strength of the Marae as zie twists and darts back the way they came in. The muffled resistance of the water presses his suit to his skin, and he nestles against unexpected warmth of the body holding him. For some reason he thought they'd be cold.

A hollowness expands in his chest along with the deepening drag of sleepiness. He's so far from home. So far from his family, his friends, and Blaine. And it's such a long way back. The Marae won't notice his tears, but he blinks them back anyway. He hasn't the resources to expend his energy on self-pity.

He just tries to stay awake.

.

**Vacation.**

Through the dark web of passageways the Marae carries him.

Kurt fights to remain conscious, so he talks, for himself. He doesn't know if the Marae will answer. But he's been curious, so he asks, "Are you alone?"

Gold and green bursts and the Marae's body vibrates. An answer comes in his ear: "No. I am with you."

It makes Kurt laugh. He clarifies, "I mean, are you alone in this place or are there others?"

The translation takes longer this time. The Marae runs through a complex dance of running pink dots, rippling purple, and golden glow.

"Many others. My family lives here with me. We are explorers."

.

At the hatch inside the waterlock, the Marae carefully unwraps zir tentacles and guides Kurt to rest against the curved wall. Zie hovers over him, zir cerata fanning out once more while zir face blushes dark purple and gold. Concern and affection, Kurt thinks.

And then a rush of color too fast to catalog, green and gold and a hundred different brighter blues over zir body. "You burn your life very quickly, person-visitor," the Marae says. "What is so precious to you, for you to choose to burn it so fast?"

It takes a moment for Kurt to rally his heart and tongue into cooperation for a reply. "My father," Kurt says, and his own suit glows bright gold and orange.

The Marae tips forward horizontally until zir face is close to Kurt's. Pale and featureless, zir wide dark eyespots and small closed mouth give the Marae a childlike demeanor. Zir cerata flutter in a broad sweep, and zir facial tentacles extend and touch his visor lightly. The Marae glows more brightly than Kurt's yet seen, steady white and rippling luminous gold. Kurt has to close his eyes.

"Are you not precious to him too?" zie asks. "And to yourself?"

Kurt's next breath chokes him, and the ache in his chest squeezes in on itself, unbearably hard. He sobs at the pain of it, cries out and opens his eyes. His suit has gone dull red, and the Marae is reaching for him again.

But then the pain reverses, expands into such a strange relief, as if all the agony has turned to dust and is streaming away, leaving his heart oddly diminished but newly whole.

He cries, and he remembers, "I am."

"Rest a moment, person. You are safe." The Marae sinks to the ground, pillowing Kurt's body with zir own.

.

Kurt cries himself out, and the Marae holds him, glowing in soft shifting pastels. His computer offers no translation.

Eventually, as the pull of sleep threatens to overtake him again, Kurt speaks, wondering, "Is it you who meets me every trip?"

"Yes."

Kurt moves, seeking enough strength to coordinate and operate his limbs. The Marae releases him and helps him stand. Kurt straightens his back and firms his joints. The fatigue remains a constant drag, but he's refreshed in intention.

"I won't see you again," Kurt says, because he knows it's true. This is his last run. He extends his hand. "Thank you. Be well."

The Marae wraps two tentacles around his wrist and hand, and zie flickers and blooms in a dazzling rainbow of colors: "Good fortune and love be with you, fellow person."

Then zie retreats from the waterlock and closes the hatch, sealing him in. Kurt punches the control to drain the lock, and while he waits, he queries Betty's status. She signals back her readiness.

"Good bye," Kurt says, to so many things.

.

His tired body is just another vehicle to drive. Kurt syncs Betty and then makes it to the cockpit. The docking clamps release, and Betty pushes back from her bay.

As he pilots her out a safe distance, peace settles in his heart with the decision made. He won't be coming back. Astronav says it's calculated his course back. "One more time, Betty," he says, and tells her to go.

.

Kurt steps back into the cryopod one last time while Betty's drive array soars toward its space bending crescendo.

He fits his earmuffs snug on his head, and he asks for music as the 'pod fills.

Blaine sings for him, and his heart is already home.

_"Who knows where the road will lead us_  
_Only a fool would say_  
_But if you'll let me love you_  
_It's for sure I'm gonna love you all the way"_

He's been gone for such a long time—far longer even than the time he's spent in cryo between galaxies, he understands. But now, he knows, he's coming home for good. He just needs to make it the rest of the way.

_"All the way_

_"Come what may"_

.

**Wedding.**

Noise shocks Kurt awake. Blaring in his ear, Betty's alarm over his ear muffs. Kurt's eyes jolt open. Everything is drenched red. The cryopod gel is frigid around his chest and draining fast.

The door is closed. Betty shrieks in his ear. Something bad has happened. Is happening. The door of the cryopod stands inches in front of his face.

Blind terror claws inside Kurt's skin, up his throat, and he tries to wrench his arms free, but the wrist cuffs haven't released. They bite into his skin, and the needle shifts, hits a nerve. A white sheet of pain blanks out the panic for an instant. Kurt presses his head back against the hard foam behind him, groans and sweats, and the gel is down his knees.

Then he starts shivering, violently. "Come on. Open open open open," he chants.

The last of the gel goes with a gurgle of suction, and no heater comes on to warm and dry Kurt. The wrist cuffs retract and the door pops open. He falls out to the deck.

Kurt catches himself by reflex only, sharply on his knees and his bent elbows. With one wobbly hand, attached to an arm like soft lead, he swipes the earmuffs off.. But it doesn't help much. The piercing scream is everywhere.

"Cancel alarm," he yells at the deck plates, and he hopes the croak that comes out of his throat will be intelligible to Betty.

Blessedly the wailing stops and the red light fades back to normal illumination. The silence is complete. Which is very very wrong.

Kurt drops to his stomach, and then weakly maneuvers to his back.

"Status?" he asks. He rolls his head to catch a blurry glimpse of the drive casing. It appears intact at least, but they've dropped their warp field.

"Complete warp drive failure," Betty reports the obvious. Then she reads him their current position, distance from both their point of departure and their waypoint, their general heading and sublight velocity—which fails to communicate the full uselessness of being adrift in the empty wastes of intergalactic space. Betty lists the closest beacons and says she's sent automated distress calls on all standard frequencies.

Kurt squirms and clumsily scoots closer the the wall panels. His body feels like an unwieldy and cold animal carcass. Every impact of himself with the surface below him hurts. He reaches for the lowest panel that holds the warmed blankets. His arm shakes and aches and wants to remain stuck to the floor, but he catches the edge of the panel with his fingertips eventually. Succeeds in painfully tearing one of his nails down to the quick.

"Fuck," he says.

It takes him another five minutes to press the panel hard enough to trigger its clasp release, but the sharp throb of pain in his finger keeps him focused well enough, keeps his eyes open, keeps his brain rolling.

He gets a blanket, which is such a relief to pull around himself. And it's necessary to keep him from succumbing to hypothermia, but it is in no way sufficient to get him on his feet and through the rest of the cryoshock and sickness without further help. The drugs that ease the first few hours aren't in his system due to the emergency wake.

And since he has no Blaine, no Guild clinician, nor the kindness of the Marae to aid him, it'll have to be a stim. But the stims are in a compartment four and half feet over his head with the quick energy nutrient packs. The designer of the cabin clearly had no experience with coming out of cryo.

Kurt lies under the blanket and moves as much as he can, trying to to get his cold muscles warmed up and his frozen joints limbered. It also helps keep him awake.

.

Once he can stand, Kurt takes the stim shot without worrying about the long term cost. He'll worry about that if he— When he gets whatever is broken fixed. When he gets back to Oasis. If he has to detox, so be it.

But the way the stim blooms in his mind, with such bright clarity, quickness, and vitality, makes him understand how pilots get so hooked. He hasn't felt this weightless within his own head since— Maybe never. His body likes him more too. He's still weak, still has to conserve his energy and think about where he's putting his feet and where to reach for support, but he's no longer dragging and clumsy. His muscles don't burn in protest of their use.

He needs to open the drive casing and see how bad the damage is, but he also needs to get himself warmer and better stabilized. He doesn't know how long the stim will hold off the sickness.

In Betty's tiny hygiene facility, he stands in the steam while high pressure mist fires at his body from every angle. It's hot and prickly, and it feels pretty amazing. Then it blows him dry. After he brushes his teeth, and finds a warm, clean jumpsuit and fresh undergarments and thick socks with rubber grips on their soles. He almost feels alive.

And then he goes to check the drive.

He doesn't dare to hope to find the array undamaged, but he has crates of gray below—maybe even the replacement Marley ordered for Betty. If he needs to replace the array himself, he knows how to do an installation in his sleep. Tuning it… well. Gray's are the easiest. His voice might not be in its best form, but he's been singing again, he might be able to tune it well enough. He'll try at least.

But when the casing opens, there's nothing but shattered, jagged shards. Not a single spear is intact. This is what Marley meant by catastrophic. Kurt is glad he was out cold when it blew. The noise of it would have caused tissue damage if he'd been unprotected by the 'pod.

He gets a pair of work gloves and Betty's toolkit and starts clearing away the pieces. The roots of each spear are still in their sockets. One by one he pries them out. The first four come clean, but the next one has sheared below the edge of the socket, and he can't get a grip on it no matter how he tries. He skips over it. Finds four more fused sockets, and throws down his tools. He can't clear them. He doesn't have the right equipment on board.

"Betty?" he asks. "Have we got a reply from any of the beacons?"

"No."

"We're going to need a long range tug," he says, which will need to come from Oasis. Which means he'll be drifting out here for months. "And a miracle. Though a lattice disruptor would do in a pinch."

He leans back against the edge of the drive housing and scans the tiny cabin. It's not designed to be lived in.

.

When Kurt feels the creep of fatigue, the chill, the anxiety, the frailty coming back on him, he takes another stim. Then he eats, heats up a foil covered ration pack, and finds it more palatable than expected.

There's still no reply from the beacon. He sits in the cockpit and uses Betty's thrusters to at least reorient his heading. He sits in the quiet and the dark and stares at the distant sparkling spiral of the Milky Way, hanging in space so bright and big. And so fucking far away.

He should record a message for Blaine, for his Dad and Carole and Finn. Maybe Rachel too. Send back amendments to his will, too. And be sure to tell Marley she was right.

He thinks about the fused sockets, the crates of new crystals in his hold, and chants to himself,

_"Water water everywhere _  
_and all the boards did shrink,_  
_Water water everywhere_  
_nor any drop to drink."_

.

He can't sleep, and it's more than the usual fallout. The stim has him wired like his eyes can't even shut.

Kurt paces the short length of Betty's cabin. If it feels small now, how will he spend months in here? There's not months of food and water, anyway, even with the waste recycling, even with the small hydroponics system available.

He could get back into cryo, but the thought of drifting while he sleeps just seems… too much like giving up. If he's going to meet his end, he wants to be awake for it.

He goes into the hygiene facility and unfolds the mirror, bracing himself for what he'll find, trying not to despair too much at his hollow cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes, nor his dull skin, and the scraggly two days growth of hair on his chin and jaw that'll never amount to anything one could even charitably call a beard.

He does the best he can with the sparse selection of toiletries Betty has stocked—even finds some make up to mask the shadows. And he does his hair. It'll have to do. He sits down at the vidcomm and pushes record.

.

Later, he turns down the cabin lights and lies on the hard fold down bunk in the quiet. The sound of his own voice still hangs in his ears, telling his father he won't be home when he said he would be. It's going to take longer, but he wants to make it back for the winter holidays anyway. He told his Dad he's met someone, too. He's fallen in love. His Dad's going to adore Blaine. He also told his Dad he's excited for his future again, that he's going to get back to tuning. The cargo run is too long and lonely. He wants to spend some time home soon—a proper decent length visit. Maybe he can bring Blaine. He's missed them all so much and two years is too long, no matter how well paid the job.

Then Kurt had recorded a message for Blaine, to tell Blaine, more honestly, that his making it back isn't looking good, and Kurt will be transferring Betty's title to Blaine so he can make sure that, when the tug brings her in, he can sell her and get the money for his family.

And then, once that business was done, he told Blaine—or he tried to—all the ways Blaine makes the universe a better place. All the ways he showed Kurt joy and beauty and love, all the ways he helped revive his hope. And even though, maybe, they won't see each other again, Kurt's grateful, so grateful, for every hour they knew each other. He won't give up, but he'll be okay. And then he sang the end to the song he couldn't bear to let Blaine finish.

_"I'll smile and just pretend_  
_There was no end, a million dreams ago"_

He told Rachel he's sorry for the years he spent turned away from her and their friendship. He wasn't angry at her, like she thought, he just could bear to be around her success after what he'd lost. It was petty. He made his own choices, some of them were mistakes, but none of them were her fault. He loves her, always. He tells her about Marley.

And he told Marley she was right, and she's an incredible talent, and if she wanted to, she could go a lot further than Oasis Station. He tells her she should have a drink with his friend Rachel when Rachel gets there. He thinks they could be friends. He tells her he loved "Desperado".

Kurt's very calm now, lying in the dark. He still can't sleep.

So he gets up and pulls up the deck plate that reveals the ladder down into the cargo hold.

.

When you're weakened from cryo, even on stims, ladders are really fucking hard he discovers, even going down. Getting back up? He doesn't think about it too much once he's on the deck below.

"Lights," he says, and the hold comes up into low pale light.

It's a foolish hope, but he has to know. The messages back to his friends and family aren't suicide notes. He's going to do all he can. He promised Blaine he would.

One by one, Kurt checks the crates' labels. Most are already commissioned and marked with their ultimate assignments. There are amber arrays for heavy ships, gray for everything that has a drive, amethyst for comms, and—

A single crate of blue. Twelve perfect untuned spears. Just the thought of them lying beneath his hands, so close, it's a call to his soul. If he believed in souls.

Its label says they're headed for a commercial research lab on New Sierra.

If he opens the crate, he'll be—at the very least—fined punitively for breaking the seal, but it's just possible that these twelve will be a selection that will fit into twelve of the twenty empty sockets Betty has. If he can install them, tune them so they wed to Betty properly, he's confident they'll be able to generate the warp field required. More than, probably. Blues aren't standard drive crystals for a lot of reasons, but that doesn't mean they can't do the job.

What remains to be seen is, can he?

Kurt sends a hope and a wish out to the universe. Then he breaks the seal.

.

**Year.**

It takes him another stim shot and four hours to get the twelve crystals up the ladder, one at a time, each carefully swaddled in a blanket and strapped across his back with a makeshift harness rigged from some spare cargo webbing.

Though his stomach votes to the contrary, he makes himself eat again and suck down another energy pack—this one an appetite curdling artificial banana flavor. Then he drinks some hot water with a metallic tasting sachet of electrolyte stabilizer. He lies on the hard bunk for a while, in the dark, singing softly to himself, songs from childhood, practice runs from his first years of training, deep breathing exercises, nothing to add stress, just to strengthen refresh the memory of his body so it understands what he's about to ask of it.

.

The blue crystals lie on the floor near the drive chamber, sandwiched in a thick wad of insulation blankets for the next two days. Kurt scarcely touches them. He skips the stim shots in the afternoons and sleeps for ten hours straight each evening. He uses the hygiene facility every morning and night—though the concepts of morning, afternoon, and night are an abstraction this far out, he wants to keep what order he can for his own sanity. Live like his living. He grooms himself, and dresses in a clean jumpsuit, puts yesterday's in the chem cleaner. He takes a steroid booster and works through simple floor exercises to help maintain and rebuild some muscle mass.

Kurt even takes the time to set up the small hydroponics system. Finds the preserved beans and seeds and reads the instructions for how to sprout them. He records more messages, a diary for what he's doing, what he plans. His hopes and intentions. He sends them out to the void, addressed to his account back on Oasis. Blaine has access to it.

He cleans and primes the cryopod again. Tries to plan for every possible eventuality, both here and back at Oasis.

And on the third day after bringing the crystals up from the hold, he sits down on the floor and unwraps them.

He has all the time in the world, so he's patient. He picks each up, feels its heft in his hands, the glossy surface of it, studies the way the light catches in it, marvels at the iridescent shimmer within the lattice of it. He used to wonder if there was some visual clue there, in that shimmer, to tell him what each crystal needs most. He hums to them, soft queries, as if he were doing a diagnostic. Most blues will resonate at multiple frequencies, the trick is to find the one—or ones—they like best (and how they like it), and the ones that will prompt them to resonate most constructively with their mates.

He takes notes on his wearable for each crystal, and asks Betty to run through all possible permutations, given certain restricting parameters, has her weed out destructive combinations and ones that simply won't work due to the selection of sockets he has available to match. There are more than 475 million possible permutations of twelve crystals, fortunately, the vast majority of them are not viable.

Betty gives him a list of just less than three hundred. It's still a lot—too many—could take him a whole year to work through them all if he's not smart about it. He doesn't have a year, but it gives him a place to start. Plus, he's got his own instincts and experience to aid him. Knows, for example, which crystals feel most like potential modulators when they vibrate back beneath his fingertips.

He sits in the cockpit and uses the HUD display to help him determine the order in which he'll approach the possible arrangements. He swipes different configurations into sets of 'more promising', 'less promising', and 'too unusual to classify'. Then he goes over the 'more promising' set again, separates out the ones that seem to him to be most likely.

The 'most promising' set contains just over three dozen potentials, which may still be days of work unless he's lucky. If he's unlucky, it'll take weeks. But he's not going anywhere soon; the time will pass anyway.

He has Betty give him a randomized list. He'll start in the morning.

.

He's singing quietly to himself after his steam shower, pushing farther into his upper range while his voice is warm and moist. He's making hot water with a dash of lemon concentrate, when he feels it prickle up his spine, a pleasant frisson of unmistakeable energy. Disbelief widens his eyes as he turns to face the back of the cabin, the open drive chamber and the crystals resting bare on the blanket in front of their casing.

He dares to sing with more volume and the shiver intensifies to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. A cascade of tones from the crystals on the floor. Disorganized but harmonic.

"Oh," Kurt says to them, and goes back. He kneels and lays his palms upon them, starts the song over, with more intensity now:

_"I don't know why I'm frightened  
I know my way around here"_

The crystals respond, and again, it's not their full voices—they're muffled lying on the blanket after all— and they're not synced, but they're responding.

"You like this, do you?" he asks them. He's never heard of such an approach to an array. Songs don't have much effect on the grays and ambers. They might buzz a little when you hit their resonant frequencies, but it's nothing like this, never a harmonic response. It's a fascinating discovery, he's just not sure what it means.

But he stops singing, tells his wearable to start recording, and starts over.

.

By the evening, Kurt is stiff from sitting too long and his head swims with too much stimulation and information. His voice needs a rest, though he's been cautious all day, careful. But he's succeeded in placing six crystals in the array and he's confident in their positions, though so far he's only got one each to be his modulator and his attenuator. Better to have more than one of each in the drive, to have more ability to maintain the stability of the warp field.

Nothing is locked in yet, but once he spent the time observing how they responded to different songs, he could narrow in on better combinations. But he's not going to push himself any further tonight.

He hauls himself up, swearing at the crack of pain in his joints, and hauls himself off to freshen up before bed. He checks his seeds in the hydroponic on the way, and he finds several of them have tiny bright green shoots curling from their cracked open hulls. It seems a small thing, but that sign of vitality and life feels like a miracle in itself: far out here beyond any hospitable planet or nurturing light of a star, life still strives to become itself.

.

The next morning, he wakes with a shiver of excitement beating beneath his skin. Today is going to be the day.

After breakfast, Betty announces he's got a response from a beacon. He pauses his recording, unfolds himself from the floor, eyeballs the nine crystals fitted snug and shining in their sockets, and goes to the cockpit to listen to the message.

The beacons have triangulated his position to within point-two light years, and a tug is on stand-by. Does he still require aid?

He sends back a reply to please remain on stand-by. He's attempting repairs, and he'll let them know as soon as possible if he's successful.

.

His hands are steady and sure as he fits the last gleaming blue crystal into its socket. He knows this array now as intimately as he's known anything in his life. When he opens his mouth for the first note in the tuning sequence he's drafted, the crystal takes the full note and returns it beautifully.

The next needs more time and play to take, he shifts the note between his upper and lower register (finds it prefers higher, though the note is relatively low) and adds more pressure gradually until it takes. That's two.

The rest go similarly, Kurt probing each individual spear with care until they respond. He worries as he climbs up the scales though, that he won't be able to get the final crystal tuned, that's it's going to be the frigate all over again. The note it wants is the top of his old range.

He works his way up lightly, and waits for the discomfort and strain to stop him. But they don't. His voice opens, even as he goes higher. Higher and higher and there's no flutter or distortion. The notes stay pure.

And finally, with tears in his eyes and the single sustained highest note ringing in his throat, the array unites.

The crystals sing back. It's transcendent.

.

Betty only gives him a yellow light on the wedding of the array with her drive apparatus. Which means he can fly, but there's some risk of the warp field destabilizing if their course takes them too close to another object of significant gravity, since his complete array still has only a single modulator and a single attenuator; the rest is chorus. Chances of destabilization are small enough, Kurt will take the risk. He'll trust the astronav's course.

Anyway, by the time he's close enough to objects with enough gravity, he's almost home. He sends a message out to the beacon, and then he dials the drive amp control to full.

"Betty," he says. "Let's fly."

The blues sing, louder and louder, and the sound of them seems to fill every empty space between the atoms of his body. Their building power sets his whole body alight, and he nearly, nearly hesitates to get in the 'pod. But he knows, as good as it would feel to let them sing him into oblivion, he wouldn't survive it.

He fits his earmuffs and steps back into the pod with a barely suppressed shudder of revulsion as its cold confines close around him. But he's going home.

"Music," he says. He made a new playlist for this last sink into sleep. "Playlist. For me."

His own voice sings him down this time, and it's with the full faith that he's done what he's needed to do to make sure he'll wake again. It's time.

_"Let him live_  
_Bring him home…"_

.

Kurt wakes on a stretcher.

The ambient noise and rough vibrations around him are strange. The light hitting the white ceiling above him is yellowish. He sees a red cross on the wall, and a medic with a guild badge on her chest and her red hair pulled into a tight pony tail sits nearby looking at him with concern in her wide brown eyes. He must be on an emergency tug.

"Thank goodness, you're awake," she says, and leans forward to put her hand on his arm. "We're almost there."

And then he slips back into unconsciousness.

.

The second time he wakes, he's perfectly warm, everything is still, and his weight rests on the softest surface imaginable. The small sounds of distant voices are muffled, and the scent that surrounds him is so familiar. Bliss and comfort and safety and, _oh_.

Kurt opens his eyes.

Some pilots say they dream in cryo. Kurt's never believed them. He's never had a cryo dream, and he knows physiologically it's impossible. The scientists say it's just a perceptual blip when they're coming up, just an instant of the right brain state that dilates into a sense of long, lucid dreaming. No one dreams in cryo.

So Kurt is either caught in one of these lucid blips, or he's in Blaine's bed.

.

**Zigzag.**

Quickly Kurt discovers he doesn't have the strength to push himself up much further than he already is propped in the pillows behind him. An odd ache at his groin prompts Kurt to lift the blankets. Finds he's in loose cotton pajama pants. His belly is hollow and soft still. He's pretty sure if this were a dream, he'd have given himself abs. Gently, he lifts the waistband and touches the padded square of bandage stuck below the juncture of his thigh and torso.

He sees a similar site at the elbow of his left arm. A flexible square of bandage and nothing he can feel beneath it. He's not brave enough to peel either back and check the damage. The placement suggests intravenous catheters. The one at his groin means his blood has been cleaned. Maybe he did overdo it on the stims after all.

Kurt touches his face then, finds he's freshly shaven, and his skin feels clean.

"Blaine?" he calls out, because he did hear a voice—or voices—when he first woke.

The door opens and Blaine comes in, and he's so beautiful and real, in his trim clothes and neat hair, with his shining smile and shining eyes—Kurt can't stop the tears from blurring his gaze, nor can he swallow the sob in his throat.

"Sweetheart, you're awake," Blaine says, and his voice is low and lovely, modulated so gently. Kurt missed the music of it. Carefully Blaine sits on the bed beside Kurt. He rubs up Kurt's arm and over his shoulder soothingly. Kurt reaches back with shaking arms, and Blaine pulls him into a long hug.

Kurt clings to him. "I was so afraid, I'd…" He chokes on all the fears, doesn't want to name them here. "Oh, god, Blaine. I was so afraid."

"Shh. You made it back," Blaine says, he pushes his fingers into Kurt's hair, a grounding pressure on his scalp, cradling the back of his head close. "And you're safe now. You're okay. You never have to go again. No more runs, no more cold sleep, no more cryosickness."

"Blaine."

"Right here," he says.

Kurt holds on as tightly as he can, and just breathes. Blaine waits for Kurt to let go first, and then eases him back into the pillows.

"Let me get you some food, and then I can tell you all the news," Blaine says, and there's excitement in his eyes and his smile is wide.

"News?" Kurt asks.

"Good news," Blaine says with a quick grin, and then he goes.

Kurt squirms up against the pillows and smooths the garnet red satin quilt over his legs. The texture and color are so familiar beneath his hands. It seems impossible that he's here. He made it?

He made it.

He made it!

He covers his face and laughs as the joyful realization swells in his chest. He made it. Whatever mess there is to clean up after himself, he'll deal with. And his Dad. He'll give him all that he can and go home for a visit. Then they can re-evaluate options. Beyond that Kurt can't even imagine. He wants the same things as always, but he doesn't want to guess at what's possible until he knows more.

Blaine returns with a tray, and shares Kurt's happy grin without comment. On the tray is a savory broth with soft white cubes of tofu and tendrils of green sea vegetable, a glass of fortified juice, and a dish containing a generous swirl of frozen yoghurt with fresh strawberries and blueberries. All gentle, nourishing food. Kurt's stomach growls its keen interest.

"Is there coffee?" Kurt asks.

"Your doctor said absolutely no stimulants for a while. Your whole stress system is exhausted. But I can get you some herbal tea if you like?"

Kurt nods his acceptance and picks up the spoon. His wrist wobbles, but his grip is strong enough. Blaine watches him carefully, but doesn't offer help.

"So what's this news then?" Kurt asks.

"First, I've been in touch with your father," Blaine says, "and his new heart is growing fine, it'll be ready for transplant two weeks from tomorrow, which is when his surgery is scheduled. He can't wait to see you, once you're ready to travel again."

Kurt drops his spoon with a clatter and a splash. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Or his own heart. "Are you—? Blaine, are you serious?"

"Yes."

"How?" Kurt asks. Maybe he's stuck in a blip after all. "I didn't have nearly enough in my account, even if—? The Guild will have seized my assets. I'll have massive fines for—"

"Kurt. You don't have any fines."

Kurt blinks at him. "But what I did to Betty, those blue crystals…"

Blaine cocks his head and his smile satisfied. "There's actually a bidding war going on over Betty."

"What?!"

Blaine laughs affectionately. "The Guild wants her for their research division, and the Tuning Federation wants her at the College, for similar reasons. It was good that you transferred her title to me, otherwise, the Guild would have just taken her. They also want copies of the logs you made while installing the drive. But I haven't shared them. They say what you did was unprecedented."

"It's always been theoretically possible," Kurt says. "To use blues in a drive. They're just so hard to tune, no one's bothered. I only did what I had to do."

"The Tuning College also wants you to do a lecture series, once you're recovered, on your experience and method with them."

"I feel like I'm missing something."

"It's a lot to take in right now, I know, and you've been unconscious for the past ten days. But Kurt, you came in three weeks early. Betty made that last warp jump in less than half the standard time."

"Oh."

"So you can understand why they're excited."

"I just— I don't remember anything, except waking up on a tug."

"You and Betty came in hot, set off all the station alarms, because her warp field hadn't dropped properly and she was generating a huge distortion wave in the local gravity field. She was here, but her array wasn't shutting down properly."

Kurt's eyebrows rise. "She needs a much stronger attenuator," he says. "I didn't expect her field would be that powerful though."

"They sounded the station evacuation alarm. It got pretty rough in here. No damage, we just got shaken up. Fortunately, the station's EMP cannons were enough to break her out of it."

"And she's… intact?"

"Yes. They had to pull her in with a tug, but she's fine. They found you unconscious on the deck in front of the 'pod. You hadn't woken up from cryo, so they were worried."

"Coma?"

"You woke on the tug, but couldn't maintain consciousness, though you kept trying to wake. In the end, they actually induced a coma, so you could rest better while your body and brain healed."

"But I'm here now?"

"Yes, once you were in good shape, they transferred you here on my request this morning. They said you'd wake naturally today. I didn't want you to wake somewhere unfamiliar."

"Thank you," Kurt says, and he reaches for Blaine's hand. Blaine reaches back. "I still don't understand how my Dad's paying for his heart."

"I told you I'd been in touch with him. And Rachel's here, too. She wants to see you when you're feeling up to it."

"Okay."

"Anyway, I got all your messages, and the diary you kept. You'd asked me and Rachel if we could try to help your Dad if you…" Blaine swallows and his eyes are bright. "If you died."

"But I'm not dead," Kurt says.

"I know. The thing is, Kurt? Why should we wait to help you until you're dead? Why not help you while you're alive? So we did."

"What did you do?"

"We—Rachel and Marley and myself—with June's help, because she was visiting—arranged a benefit concert at The Blue Bar. I told your story, and people were amazingly generous, but it wasn't enough. Afterward, June made me an additional offer, and um?" Blaine's smile diminishes then. Nervously, he glances down and squeezes Kurt's hand. "She offered to buy my contract, for a very generous amount, that would more than make up the difference to cover your Dad's surgery."

Kurt goes dizzy and cold. "Did you sell her your contract?" He asks with numb lips. "Why would you do that? Does that mean—? What does it mean, Blaine? Please, tell me I'm not losing you."

"No. no. You're not. Let me explain? It's all fine, I promise."

"Okay, please, Blaine, I don't want to lose you."

"You're not," Blaine says again. "It's five years she bought, which sounds like a long time, I know."

"You like being a free agent, don't you?"

"I do, but she doesn't own me, Kurt, just some of my time. What we negotiated is, actually, really good for me; it's something I absolutely want, and I believe it's potentially good for us, too. My free time is still my own, I just can't work for anyone but her."

"So…" Kurt frowns. "What does that mean for… us?"

"It means," Blaine says, and his smile strengthens. "That I'll be moving back to New Sierra soon. June's got a selection of downtown apartments for me to chose among, and my hope is that you might like to help me choose one, and then, once you're ready, you can come live there with me."

Kurt stares at Blaine.

"What do you think?" Blaine asks, sweetly beseeching, as if he doesn't honestly know how Kurt will answer. "You heal up, then go visit your family, and after that we move in together, maybe pick somewhere close to the Tuning College? You'd be close to your family too—just a train ride away. You could take up the College's request for a lecture series if you wanted to. We could make it our home together."

None of this is what Kurt expected would be the result when he stepped into the cryopod for the last time. He would never have dared even the most idle daydream of such an outcome. There's no version of reality in which Kurt would say no.

"Yes," he says. And finally his heart catches up with his head—or his head with his heart, he doesn't know which way it works. Kurt smiles and laughs and nearly tips over his tray to be taken into Blaine's embrace. "Yes, yes, a million times: _yes_."


	4. Epilogue

] Anniversary [

(one day, one year later)

Kurt wakes too early. Behind their gauzy curtains, the wide windows are barely gray with dawn. The memory of the nightmare that woke him still crawls unpleasantly along his nerves. Even in bed with Blaine beside him, snug in their bedding, he's cold. Quietly he gets up and heads for the shower.

The worst nightmares are the ones that start as dreams of being happy with Blaine, and then, within the dream he wakes from Betty's cryopod to discover he's stranded, with a shattered drive, without hope or help, that all his past months back on New Sierra, with Blaine and working at the Tuning College is the mirage.

Fortunately, he always wakes again, safe in bed, with Blaine. And he remembers quickly: he now lives on a planet with gentle air and bountiful life and open cloud streaked skies.

He reorients himself in the hot spray of the shower. Hums scales as he shampoos his hair. Walks himself through the day ahead, which he's been anticipating for months now.

.

He finds Blaine in the kitchen, making pancakes. On the table is fresh fruit and fragrant coffee waiting to be pressed. The glass doors to their small balcony are open to let in the early summer air and rising sun. A bumblebee bumps his way across the flowers on the potted strawberry plants.

"Good morning," Kurt says, and Blaine turns from the stove with a bright smile that's all for Kurt, and always strikes such a happy fillip against Kurt's heart.

"Good morning," Blaine replies, and Kurt sits at the table. "You were up early," Blaine says. "Nerves?"

Kurt shakes his head as he reaches for the newsheet, scans the slow scroll of headlines with only scattered interest this morning, but the date catches him. "Not yet," he says. "It was... the usual." It's been one year today since he woke in Blaine's bed back on Oasis. One year. He'd hoped the bad dreams would have left him by now.

He's seeing a therapist fortnightly, and it helps. She said it might take a while. This is normal. He's recovering well. He just wants to be recovered already.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says. He slides a stack of blueberry pancakes onto Kurt's plate and kisses his cheek. Kurt turns for a second kiss on the lips. Blaine makes it three-and then a fourth that lingers long and slow, and is hot enough to speed Kurt's heart and catch in his lungs. It's a promise for later tonight, after the luncheon, the launch, and the reception. "You're going to be amazing today," Blaine says, and takes the seat across the corner of the table, next to Kurt.

Kurt smiles. "I know," he says, and he does know.

.

June's car is scheduled to pick up Blaine just before lunch. Kurt helps him dress for her luncheon while Blaine runs through his speech at high speed. The event is to raise funds for a new state-of-the-art integrated care cryo recovery center at Oasis, so it's a cause close to both their hearts.

June's scheduling it for today has been strategic, to prime people for the new luxury liner, _Bretagne's_, launch in the afternoon, at which Kurt is presenting his installation of the ship's blue drive array with a live performance. Kurt's told his story in media interviews often enough that the connection should come naturally to the audience, without anyone having to state it outright. At least that's the plan. Kurt isn't attending the luncheon. The high society charity politicking is Blaine's milieu.

Blaine's not performing today; he's speaking in his capacity as a member of the project's advisory committee. After which he'll help charm June's guests out of their money, while also looking beautiful on her arm. And he does look beautiful.

"Perfect," Kurt says, as he smooths the bow tie across Blaine's collar, and then runs his thumb along Blaine's freshly shaved jaw. "You know, you're kinda hot when you're being all political," he says.

To which Blaine grins and glances down, pleased. When he looks back up, he leans in to give Kurt a brief kiss on the lips. "I'll see you this afternoon," Blaine says. "Break a leg."

"I'm proud of you, honey" Kurt says, "Good luck with the shmoozing."

.

Up on the orbital, Rachel is with him in his makeshift dressing room as he prepares. He's about to vibrate out of his exceptionally finely tailored suit.

"You've always had such terrible stage fright, Kurt," she says over the rim of her glass of champagne. "But you're going to be fantastic.

"I don't know," Kurt says. "I might open my mouth and nothing will come out. Or I could just drop dead on the spot. Rachel, you saw the crowd out there."

"They're all here to be dazzled by you."

Kurt snorts. "They're here to be dazzled by the new liner."

"Which you tuned with your 'ground breaking and innovative new technique, and whose revolutionary new warp drive you're presenting, installed on a new liner more luxurious than any before her. The _Bretagne_ is truly a majestic vessel, the likes of which... blah blah, I can't remember the next bit. Um, she's a vessel destined to change the galactic map and space travel as we know it!'" Rachel says, hamming up the enthusiasm to a comic degree.

Kurt groans, "You read that godawful sheet article yesterday? Ugh."

"They may have abused their thesaurus and the word 'new'," Rachel says, "but they didn't say anything that wasn't true, and you know it, so I'm not buying your false modesty for a minute," she says.

Kurt rolls his eyes, and glares into the mirror as he undoes his tie for the third time. He keeps ending up with the dimple askew. "Did you see my Dad and Carole out there? Finn?"

"Yes, I did," she says, and he glances at her reflection behind him to catch the sparkle in her eye that confirms, she definitely saw Finn.

"Okay," Kurt says to the knot he's just tied. It's not perfect, but it's probably as good as he'll get tonight with fingers that feel like little more than articulated, overcooked noodles. He steps back, turns and twists to get a better view of the whole of himself in the mirror.

"Your ass looks fantastic," Rachel says. "Better than ever."

"I was checking the drape of the jacket," he says primly. But he smiles in pleasure at her compliment. God knows he's worked hard enough getting his body back to health. He runs a hand over the muscular curve of his buttocks. It's still a little bit surreal, but he's made his PT proud, and he feels he's earned the right to indulge a little vanity, which the cut of his trousers definitely do.

"Mmhm," Rachel says, grinning

"I wish you were singing with me," he says. "I'd be less nervous."

"Me too, but I'd only sour your array. And I'm not too proud to admit I'm jealous. Are you sure I can't tempt you away from the College? Come join me and Marley on the dark side of private tuning practice. You could make so much more money with us than you do lecturing or whatever, and doing these commissions for the Federation."

"I'm happy where I am," he says.

"I know you are," she says fondly.

The lights dim and there's a chime. He has fifteen minutes. He spins on his toe and stares at Rachel, where she's sprawled in the room's armchair, her pink organza gown fanned around her.

"Oh god," he says, as his stomach twists itself into a new knot of anxiety. His chest feels like it's full of disoriented moths. That's what's going to come out when he opens his mouth: moths. "I'm going to pass out."

Rachel sets her glass aside, stands, and takes him by the shoulders. "No you're not. Kurt," she says, and she gives him her most determined look. "This is not the hardest thing you've done."

That's true. He takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily as he nods.

"You can do things no one else can do. You've discovered something amazing. Now you're going to go out there and blow them all away with what you've created. You'll bring the house down, there won't be a dry eye in the bay. Trust me. And you will more than earn the standing ovation you get. I'm so happy for you, Kurt. You deserve all the best things."

He fails to blink back the warmth in his eyes and pulls her into a grateful hug. "I hope you know you're one of those best things."

"Of course I do. You're very lucky to have me," she says. And he laughs and wipes his eyes. He's ready.

.

He steps out onto the stage set before the _Bretagne's_ open stern. Her drive chamber is exposed, the casing open, and a single spotlight shines on the thirty-six blue spears shimmering in the light.

Facing the audience, Kurt straightens his shoulders and waits for the other spot to light him. In the private box to his left he sees Blaine sitting with June. His family sit with her, and as he waits, he sees Rachel come in and take the empty seat next to Finn.

The light comes on him, but Kurt doesn't flinch. He takes a breath and he opens his mouth and nothing but music comes out:

_"Something has changed within me,"_ he sings, and the crystals' voices join him, rising in complex and flawless harmony, swelling to fill the vast vault of the docking bay. The crystals sing with him, and it's as if their song and his voice fuse the music within the atoms of his body, setting his whole body in thrall to it. Nothing compares. Kurt tips his head back, raises his arms, and lets his body become a conduit for the sound and the sublime rapture of it.

_"I think I'll try_  
_Defying gravity_  
_And you wont bring me down!"_

When he and the crystals fade into silence at the end, there's a single moment that hangs in perfect stillness before the applause. Then it comes in a deafening roaring wave. Kurt wipes the tears from his cheeks with a trembling hand and takes his first bow of many.

.

At the reception after, he's delighted to run into Marley. She looks gorgeous in a strapless blue sequined gown with her hair cut into a smooth bob. She's been working with Rachel's firm now for two months. It suits her. After they catch up, she wants to talk shop with Kurt, and her enthusiasm for the subject is as engaging as ever.

His Dad and Carole find him, and they discuss the coming weekend's plans. Carole coos abundant praise over his performance. His Dad looks at him with so much pride in his eyes, squeezes his shoulder, and says, "That's my boy." Kurt has to wipe the tears from his eyes for the third time that night.

While other people come and go, to make small talk and marvel at his presentation and the ship, he nurses a flute of warming champagne and intermittently watches Blaine across the room, with June's hand on his arm. He'll never quite get used to it, he doesn't think. He's not jealous, not when he knows Blaine's smile is sincere, and he knows that this is what Blaine wants to be doing. But he sometimes wishes they could attend these events together, that their private relationship didn't require quite so much public discretion.

Here on New Sierra, it wouldn't matter if Blaine were in June's employ or still working for himself, a Host cannot be seen to be exclusively attached to a romantic partner outside their work. The illusion of potential availability must be maintained. It's part of the game, that even when Blaine is under contract to June, it must be convincing that it's his choice, in every moment he's there to be by her side, and that reflects on her power and charisma favourably. Because Blaine could be anyone's—a Host always chooses their clients-but he's hers.

It gives Kurt a headache to try to make sense of it, but what he can understand and appreciate is the power and influence that's accrued around Blaine as a result of June's patronage. Blaine knows how to play the game very well, and Kurt's come to understand what Blaine told him so long ago now, that his coming back to New Sierra would require the right circumstances. These are those circumstances: Blaine wants to be able to make a difference here. He would have sold his contract to June even without Kurt being a factor. But Kurt is still glad he was a factor. And that he is.

Anyway, that he and Blaine are together is probably the worst kept secret in the circles they run, but so long as they don't flaunt their relationship, it's no detriment to either of them. Kurt's understands, too, why Blaine called the navigation of New Sierran society stressful. It wasn't remotely an issue on Oasis.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Rachel asks from beside him. He didn't see her approach.

"You won't get much for a penny," Kurt replies, and Rachel giggles. Her breath smells like champagne, but she's glowing and happy tonight, so it's not only the open bar that has her so bright.

"I just wanted to say you were exactly as amazing as I knew you'd be, and also good night. I'm taking Finn dancing."

"That sounds perilous. Watch out for your feet," Kurt says, but he grins. "I'm happy for you both, sweetie. Have fun." He kisses her cheek, and she goes.

He slips away after that, feeling overwhelmed by the press of people and their eager attention. It's flattering, but it's more than he can comfortably endure for now.

.

Along the quiet, evening-dimmed corridors, he finds the lift to take up to the level where Betty is docked. He hasn't been up to see her in a few months.

His College faculty card opens the door to her bay. He stands for a time, uncertain how he wishes to approach her—or even if he truly wants to be any closer than this. Compared to the sleek swan-like lines and broad warp-wing span of the _Bretagne_, she's tiny and squat, a fat-bodied bird with tiny wings and a small head. It's incredible that she made that last jump. Kurt knows enough now to understand how the odds were stacked against him and Betty. It gives him a chill to think how improbable that last throw of the dice was.

He walks forward a few steps, with his arms crossed and hands tucked behind his elbows. "Hello, old friend," he says to her.

A footstep behind him. Familiar. Blaine. Kurt's shoulders relax and he half-turns as Blaine comes up to him.

"I thought I'd find you here," Blaine says.

They stand together in easy silence for a while, looking up at Betty's battered hull plating. "Did I ever tell you why I bought her?" Kurt asks eventually.

"No," Blaine says.

"I didn't know how to tell a good ship from a lemon. But, um, you know my mother's name was Elizabeth? I figured it was some kind of sign. From the universe. That if I bought this ship, she'd carry me home safely. It's silly, but..." Kurt trails off with a shrug. "In the finish, she did."

"It's not silly," Blaine says. He pulls Kurt against him, presses a fierce kiss to Kurt's hair, and Kurt can feel in the pressure of it and the way Blaine's hand tightens around his arm, all the unspoken fears Blaine had carried during that time. For this moment, standing here with Betty, Kurt holds his own memories lightly and without pain. It's not the fondness of nostalgia, but it's something not wholly unlike it. He doesn't feel regret. Betty brought him to where he is.

"Will June be missing you?" he asks.

"Not yet," Blaine says.

"How'd it go this afternoon?"

"I'll tell you about it later, but," Blaine says, "it went exceedingly well."

"I'm glad," Kurt says. "You and June are a formidable team."

Blaine shrugs it off. "You were incredible up there tonight," he says. "For the first time, I feel like I got glimpse of what it must be like for you, to sing that way. Thank you for sharing that with so many of us."

"There's nothing else like it," Kurt says. He considers, for an instant, climbing up into Betty and seeing how her crystals would like a song tonight. Maybe Blaine would come up with him. But he's wearing a very expensive suit, and he's among the guests of honor. A long absence would be conspicuous. "I should get back though."

"Yeah, me too. June wants to leave within the hour. I was thinking about going to The Lighthouse after I dropped her off?"

It sounds like a good cap to their evening. "I'll meet you there," Kurt says.

.

Kurt arrives at The Lighthouse late, the night is deep and cooling toward the morning's dew. Kurt climbs the stairs and unbuttons his light coat in anticipation of the warmth inside.

None of The Lighthouse's patrons would've been at any of the events today. Most of them are probably oblivious to their existence, though the _Bretagne_ has been newsworthy.

Blaine likes to come here on his own time—unpaid of course-and Kurt likes to meet him here. The ease of anonymity is relaxing, and the place reminds both of them of The Blue Bar. Its clientele is diverse, many weary from working long hours or they're in transit this close to the port. Blaine's never been recognized as anyone but the guy at the piano who knows all the songs.

Kurt drapes his coat over an empty chair and takes a seat by the stained glass window depicting the bar's namesake. He orders a whiskey sour.

Fairy lights adorn the bar's low ceiling, painting everyone in a kaleidoscope of color and reflecting across the polished surface of the piano. When Blaine spots Kurt, he grins and finishes his current song with a flourish up the keyboard.

Blaine speaks to the crowd then, but the affection in his voice is for Kurt alone. "I'd like to dedicate this next one to... the love of my life," he says.

Kurt inclines his head and tips his glass to Blaine.

The piano is light and playful as Blaine begins the song:

_"It's very clear_  
_Our love is here to stay_  
_Not for a year, but forever and a day"_

Blaine plays for another hour, and Kurt has a second drink while he just relaxes and enjoys and soaks in Blaine's enjoyment, the enjoyment of the audience, his own contentment in the moment, and the feeling that he is exactly where he's meant to be in the universe.

And then they walk home together.

.

Blaine presses him face first against the wall in their bedroom, and his hand curves around Kurt's throat, a gentle, covetous collar as his teeth graze the back of Kurt's neck. Kurt shivers and moans. Blaine's other hand tugs Kurt's belt and fly open. The smooth plaster is cool beneath Kurt's cheek, but Blaine's palm is hot wrapping around him.

"Are you happy tonight?" Blaine asks softly, pressing against Kurt's ass so Kurt can feel how much he's wanted.

"Perfectly," Kurt answers.

"Good," Blaine says, and he drops to his knees behind Kurt.

.

Naked and cooling in the golden light of their bedside sconces, Kurt rolls toward Blaine.

"What about you?" Kurt asks. He kisses the small tattoo that's etched over Blaine's heart, a swallow in flight. Kurt has a matching one on the back of his shoulder, behind his heart. Even when he was heading so far away from Blaine, Blaine had his back, and Blaine held his heart.

A safe return home, always, they've promised each other, no matter where their paths may take them in between.

"Hmm?" Blaine inquires sleepily.

"Are you happy tonight?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "Perfectly."

Other questions Kurt might ask Blaine catch in his throat. He touches Blaine's skin, and—it's not doubt exactly. Not in Blaine, but in their happiness. Tonight, he can't stop himself from wondering what the catch will be, what's it going to cost him. When will he wake up from the 'pod? It's just the morning's nightmare still haunting him, he knows. He's been through this so many times. But tonight, it's been one year, and despite himself, now that the day's events are past and the thrill of sex diminished, he's ruminating on it.

"What is it?" Blaine asks.

"The nightmare this morning?" Kurt says. "It was one of the worse ones. And I'm just reminding myself this is real. I'm here with you. It's not going to vanish on me."

"Yes, Kurt. This is real."

"It's, um," Kurt swallows hard. "Today, it's been a year since I woke up in your bed on Oasis."

"Oh," Blaine says, he props himself up on his elbows. "I'm sorry. I didn't even realize."

"It's okay," Kurt says. "I just..." He shifts off Blaine and turns to his back.

"What do you need?"

"It's not actually perfect, is it?"

Blaine looks at him tenderly and long. Kurt needs to be reminded of the problems sometimes, lest the good things seem too good to be real.

"It's not perfect," Blaine says. "Last week we fought over rearranging the music room. You got so mad at me you walked out, and you were gone so long, I worried something bad had happened to you."

Kurt offers an apologetic smile and touches Blaine's tattoo again. "That's right," he says, because the exchange of imperfections is not for the purposes of rehashing anything; it's just a catalog, there's rarely anything new of import that they haven't already discussed.

"My lecture the other day was terrible," Kurt says. The students were confused by the math for predicting potential large blue array permutations. The harder I tried to make it clear, the worse it got. I had two students leave the lecture hall before the end."

"What about that clusterfuck of a cocktail party June took me to on the riverboat last month? Half the guests ended up with food poisoning. Including me."

"I hate that I can't dance with you at events like tonight," Kurt says. "But I'm so proud of you for the things you're accomplishing with June."

"I miss having other clients sometimes," Blaine says, and then amends, "But missing something doesn't mean I'm not completely happy with what I have." He squeezes Kurt's hand.

And since it's starting to get serious, Kurt adds an easier one. "We've run out of coffee. I forgot to stop by the store."

"Really? Damn."

And so it goes. They take turns talking about the irritants and problems that have disrupted their happy lives in the past few weeks. They laugh about them, and it's good.

"Feeling more real yet?" Blaine asks as their back and forth dwindles into silence.

Kurt still struggles to explain the way the nightmares affect him sometimes, but he knows Blaine doesn't need him to explain. And he knows he can always ask for the things he needs from Blaine; that's always been true. So he looks at Blaine and he asks, "Kiss me so I'll be sure?"

Blaine does, and Kurt is.


End file.
